


Coming Back To You

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [8]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: Another mile of silenceWhile I'm coming back to you.*(c)
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 59
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

_We were eternal back in those days  
But now we are memories  
They hide us away  
We were the only ones  
Never forget, those fallen heroes  
Never again...'(с)*_

****

**_2003, somewhere above Germany._ **

_When did it all happen? When was that crucial turning point after which everything went headfirst to hell?_

_Paul wonders as he closes his eyes, listening to the steadily swelling roar of the plane's engine. It's been a while since he last dared to ask himself such questions, and he definitely can't say he's particularly happy to delve into that abyss again. This time, however, there's apparently nothing he can do about it, which makes him feel like a trapped animal – he's chained to his fate by the strap of his seat-belt._

_Only one moment comes to mind – ironically, the moment the word 'love' was first pronounced. Could they have escaped all hell breaking loose afterwards if they had never let it happen? Where would they be now if they had simply let whatever feelings they held for each other remain at the stage of occasional, consensual sex, with nothing more to it than the mere physical satisfaction? Was it at all possible back then, not to say those words to each other?_

_That's nothing but wistful thinking, though. The words_ had been _said, and there's no way to change the events which have already had their consequences. Or is there? Maybe there's still some chance to somehow unsay them? Forget about them as if he had never heard them?_

_A deep sigh escapes Paul's lips as he wonders whether this is the real purpose of his visit. He is just a few hours away from meeting Richard face to face, but he still hasn't figured out what exactly it is he's going to tell him. Now, after days, weeks, months of silence. Such a comfortable, safe silence, which could do no harm to anyone. At least no more than they both have done with the words they said._

"You've got to sort it out between yourselves."

_That was what Schneider told him a couple of months ago, having visited Richard in New York. That was what Till said just a few weeks before, adding that nothing was yet settled. And, that the only people who could get it right again were actually he and Richard._

_Easier said than done, though. There's not much left to sort out at all, Paul reflects. What might strangers have to straighten out? Because that's exactly what they've been for years – mere strangers – so how could they possibly know what they should settle? Just some elusive, obscure 'it'._

_Luckily, Paul has a long flight ahead of him and plenty of time to find the answer. As they ascend high enough, the unpleasant jolting of the plane finally subsides and a soft bleep informs the passengers they can now unfasten their seat-belts, and Paul doesn’t hesitate to do so. For some reason, he is indeed feeling as if the seatbelt was attached to the Old Sparky and he was some miserable convict waiting to ride the lightning, not a respectable German citizen on a transatlantic flight heading for New York._

_What his mind involuntary drifts off to seems to have happened so long ago that he can hardly recall the events of that crucial night. It hasn't really been that long, only a little more than four years have passed, yet so much has changed so drastically in such short a time that it starts to look more like a trick of his imagination. However, there are still a few recollections which are so vivid they might as well have been literally burned into Paul's memory. He surely won't be able to forget that sickening feeling of panic until the end of his days. That said, unsettling as it is, some part of him is really glad to still possess it – that, at least, assures him he'll never do such a stupid thing again; he's learnt his lesson._

**1999, America, Family Values Tour.**

It was all too loud, too bright, and too hot. The smell of pyro was making him want to retch his guts out, and it felt like his heart was beating violently right in his throat, sometimes stumbling, which unnerved Paul even more. It was hard to breathe, as if all the oxygen had been burned out of the air, and his vision suddenly got blurred and dim, which only intensified his panic. All he needed was to get out of this fucking closed space which was the dressing room, Paul tried to convince himself, to get a breath of fresh air and to find somebody who'd surely know what to do. He reached out for the door handle, but his limbs felt like they were stuffed with wadding, and his movements and vision were so uncoordinated it nearly sent him falling over. He managed to regain his balance at the last possible moment, and instead of hitting the floor hard, he just smoothly slid down onto it, with his back against the wall, his hand slipping off the dressing room door handle.

He was dizzy, and the room started spinning around him, making him even more nauseous than he already was, but, strangely, his thoughts remained pretty clear. At least clear enough to scare the shit out of him as it led Paul to the conclusion that he was probably going to hit the bucket, right here. What a stupid way to die, really. He should've known better than to pop speed washing it down with tequila and, subsequently, fucking himself up on stage afterwards. For god's sake, what had he been thinking? He'd always prided himself on knowing what to take, and when. And how much. It had never been his intention to croak like this.

In the maze that was whirling around him, Paul tried to calm down and catch his breath, but all he managed to take were a few, shallow pants. That obviously wasn't enough, and he gasped and gasped and gasped for air, shaking from the irregular fluttering of his own heart.

The next thing Paul could recall relatively well was that he was bent over a toilet bowl, sweating, trembling and heaving, with someone holding him around his waist in a firm grip. Then, he didn't know it was Richard. At that moment, it was as if his guardian angel himself had descended from the heavens and was pulling him back to life, and Paul desperately clung to the arm that was around him.

Then there were people, many people, fussing around, but it felt like he was dreaming it all. He remembers thinking, with a strange calmness, that if he had really died, there was no use for panicking anymore. Besides, he was literally being enveloped by something soothing, so he didn't really mind. For a while at least, until another wave of terror washed over him, making him cling to his guardian angel once again, who was slowly taking on the shape of his fellow guitarist and long-time bedmate. He didn't care who it was, though, not then. All that mattered was that the scent of him was calming and his hold secure and protective. It was assuring him that all was going to be alright, just like the continuous soft murmur in his ear did, even when all the other voices died away.

And that was when it happened for the first time, that first _'I love you'_. Quiet, muffled and desperate.

And then Paul noticed that his face was suddenly wet, but he couldn't hold back those tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn't have the slightest clue as to why he was crying at all, and no strength to suppress it either. All he could do was to clutch for dear life at the fabric of Richard's stage outfit, somehow knowing it was where he would definitely be safe.

**_Somewhere above the Atlantic. Still no juice from the flight attendants._ **

_Paul glances out of the small oval window but all he can see below is a vast field of immaculately white, sunlit clouds._

_Those words, hurriedly mumbled by Richard right into his ear, was what started it all, and afterwards, it became so easy to repeat them, over and over again, as if it had turned into a habit. Still, habit or not, Paul very well remembers how his heart lurched upon hearing the simple little confession later, when he was conscious enough to process it. And how intimate the atmosphere was. It was so tangible he could literally taste that intimacy on the very tip of his tongue, which he'd sneaked into Richard's mouth, just like he'd done many times before. He liked to think that nothing in the world existed but the two of them, huddled close under the starry sky and surrounded by centuries-old tall pines as they shared their warmth, breaths and kisses._

_Even now, some part deep inside of him wishes it all could be just as easy again – that moonlit wooden terrace, the cool but gentle breeze ruffling his hair and Richard's warm lips on his, mumbling, 'love'._

_It can never be, however, and Paul knows it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and stretches out his legs, his knees immediately echoing with yet another mild, dull ache. His fingers start tapping a random rhythm against one of the armrests as he wonders, not without apprehension, how he and Richard are going to get on this time._

**_2003, New York._ **

_The events which Paul's got rather dim recollections of, Richard can remember as clearly as if they took place four days, and not four years, ago. His feelings still remain rather ambivalent, though – part of them makes the hairs stand on the back of his neck even now, just as the other part makes a warm bubble appear somewhere deep inside his chest. All of it still tastes of nothing but bitterness, however._

_He doesn't have the slightest desire to keep reminding himself of those events right now – what he really needs is a clear head and some common sense when he finally meets the so unexpectedly coming Paul – but the memories are intruding into his head as if by their own will. And once again, it makes him wonder how it could be possible that it was the beginning of the end when, by all means, it should have been the complete opposite._

**1999, America. In the midst of a touring hell.**

Looking back, he knows that they were living the dream, right then and there. Just a few years before, a gig in a big club had been all they could wish for, but here they were now, gathering decent venues full of fans who chanted along to the lyrics in German. They had shared the stage with such juggernauts as Kiss and turned an average club performance into a spectacle, with stunning light and fire shows, with tonnes of equipment and dozens of trucks hauling it all. They weren't just celebrities; they were finally world famous.

Girls at the front row threw their bras up on stage, and men looked up at them as if they'd been six gods descending to Earth. They were willing to give them everything for nothing, thus making so many things easily accessible. All they could ever wish for was there for them, served on a silver platter – money, fame, parties, girls, boys, alcohol, sex, drugs.

Probably too much of the latter, Richard can still remember thinking, after throwing a glance at his fellow guitarist during one of their concerts in the Land of the Free. What made him think this was Paul's unnaturally exhilarated condition. On the other hand, judging by the way the man tended to behave on stage, no one could tell for sure whether he really was stoned or not. That was one of Paul's greatest talents – making people around him believe what he wanted them to believe. For example, pretending that he was high as a kite when actually he was the soberest person of all and, very often, the other way around.

That he _must_ have taken something, Richard realized only when they were finally done with the gig, heading off the stage towards the dressing rooms. Paul could barely hold a bottle of water, his hands visibly shaking, which resulted in him finally dropping it on the floor of the dusky narrow corridor. He muttered a curse but didn't bother to pick up the bottle and kept walking, his movements jerky and a bit uncoordinated.

Richard didn't really like what he'd just seen but back then he thought that most probably it was due to pure exhaustion – with German efficiency, at concerts they tended to give it all they got. Which, in turn, tended to leave them in a rather pitiful state afterwards. This had been the case during this entire American leg of the tour, in fact, so much so that it often made Richard wonder whether they'd live to see the end of it, what with all the booze and party favours.

He let Paul out of his sight once they'd reached the backstage area – he had to have a quick word with his guitar technician concerning some issues he'd experienced during the gig. Till and Flake shuffled past him to the dressing room they customarily shared. Christian was quietly, but rather eloquently, reproaching Till. It ought to have something to do with the _Bück Dich_ performance since Till's face was bearing a little impish grin. He dutifully repeated his, _'Okay'_ every once in a while, which by the looks of things only made Flake even more pissed off. Well, as pissed off as Flake could get, that was. Oliver and Schneider were also somewhere in the proximity – Richard could hear the drummer's voice, choked with laughter, while he was trying to explain something in his broken English.

He was in the middle of the usual post-gig commotion, and that was exactly when Richard realized he wasn't really listening to his sound tech at all. He wasn't paying attention to what was going on around him either. All that occupied his mind was the vision of how the bottle of water had dropped out of Paul's hand and onto the floor just a few minutes ago, which made him wonder where the man had disappeared to and whether he really was alright.

"Excuse me…" Richard muttered absently and, not waiting for a reply, headed straight for the dressing room he knew Paul was sharing with Olli. He could discuss the guitar issues to his little heart's content later because all he could think about right now was finding Paul and making sure his silly premonition, which had come out of nowhere, was wrong. He must be inside, snacking on something or having a shower. Heaven have mercy, let him be doing that or something else--

"Paul?"

Richard didn't even notice him upon entering the dressing room. Paul wasn't in the shower, and he wasn't eating or drinking either. He was slumped down by the door, with his back against the wall as if he had slid all the way down, and with his eyes half-closed. His breath was leaving his parted lips in short, shallow gasps, which instantly sent a shot of panic to Richard's very core. No, he definitely _wasn't_ alright. _Shit._

"Paul?!"

He squatted down beside his bandmate, confused and with a growing feeling of impending doom inside his stomach. Paul didn't look up or react in any other way, not even acknowledging Richard's presence. His face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, the stage make-up smudged and running, and he was trembling as if he was running a fever.

"What's happened?" He cupped Paul's cheeks, his skin hot and damp to the touch. His hair was sticking to his sweaty brow. _"Paul?!_ "

Richard's last half-yell finally managed to make Paul look up at him, his pupils so dilated they hid his irises. He had never seen him like this, Richard suddenly realised, so frightened and barely aware of who he was at all. And, granted, Richard had been around long enough to witness quite a lot.

"Pills," Paul finally slurred, taking another quivering breath. "I didn't want to…"

 _Pills_ , Richard cursed under his breath. _Pills_ , oh for fuck's sake! "What pills, Paul? What the fuck did you take?!"

Paul didn't answer, though. He closed his eyes instead, which only propelled Richard's alarm further. He'd never been one prone on panicking, that was, until now, when he understood that he was completely lost as of what he should or shouldn't do. Should he stay here with Paul? Was he supposed to rush for help?

The only thought that was repeatedly flashing through his mind back then was that this couldn't be happening for real. Not now. Not to him. Not to Paul. It must be a nightmare. Nonetheless, the nightmare went on, no matter how hard he wanted to pinch himself and wake the fuck up.

What Richard did next was dictated purely by instinct. He could hardly be responsible for his actions – it was as if someone else took control over him and was whispering commands into his ear, making him bolt out of the dressing room in the search for someone. And even though he can clearly recall every single step he took, it still seems to him as if he was just a bystander, watching himself from aside.

He can also remember how Till's eyes widened as he listened to him babbling short, almost incoherent sentences in an attempt to explain what the fuck had happened, and how Flake was the first to rush off somewhere. Richard, in turn, ran back to the dressing room, praying that nothing had happened to Paul in his absence. They found him in the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, so he sank down beside it, mumbling jumbled promises that everything was going to be alright, even though he didn't have a fucking clue whether that was true.

Together with Till, they managed to lead Paul out of the bathroom and unload him on a big easy-chair, still trembling, panting and sweating, with his eyes closing now and again. It made Richard feel utterly horrified, so he held Paul's face in his hands, stroking his cheeks over and over again to make the man look up at him and constantly talking – he thought he'd heard once that it was important to keep overdosed people conscious, and if he'd understood it correctly, that was exactly what had happened. He didn't have the slightest idea whether that was going to help now, but he continued just in case.

Richard remained beside him until the paramedics arrived, Paul's trembling hand feebly squeezing his, and he didn't dare to let it go. Instead, he let his fingertips soothingly brush the back of his hand until a man and a woman from the emergency crew shooed him and everyone else away. They were dressed in dark blue outfits and had rectangular red cases with them. _Just like in movies_ , Richard absently thought, watching them fussing around his hapless bandmate with their gadgets and needles.

They did let him come up to the patient after a while, when Paul was wrapped into damp towels and had ice packs tucked in under his armpits. Richard squatted beside the easy-chair, immediately claiming back his band mate's hand. The female EMT kept explaining something in her American accent, but Richard was still feeling so shocked he could barely understand her. All he somehow managed to make out were a few scarce words about possible amphetamine overdose, administering fluids and decreasing the body temperature, so he just absently nodded to everything he heard.

She tended to address mostly him, Richard realised, even though quite a few people had gathered in the dressing room by that time, including their manager – whom he'd seen out of the corner of his eye, standing at the door way, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He assumed that the paramedic's attention was the result of his and Paul's joined hands – it could have shed some light onto what kind of relationship they were in. That didn't bother Richard in the slightest, though – even if half of the bloody paparazzi corps burst in, he wouldn't give a damn about what they might think. They could all march straight to hell, taking their cameras with them. He didn't really care to listen to what the doctor was saying either – at least after she'd promised that there wasn't any immediate threat to Paul's life. Emu was there, and Richard knew that he would listen and remember everything – he was, after all, the only person who still seemed to be capable of holding this hell on wheels on the right track. All he did bother to do was to hold Paul's hand securely in his own.

Richard hardly even noticed how the small crowd disbanded, leaving the two of them alone in the dressing room – he'd been too busy with absently stroking Paul's fingers and repeating that everything was going to be just fine. A quiet sob yanked him back into the stuffy semi-darkness, making Richard avert all his attention back to his fellow guitarist. Paul made an attempt to curl up in the chair, bringing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face against them, muffling the soft, ragged sounds that escaped his mouth.

Had the paramedics said something about mood swings? Richard wondered as he cautiously wrapped his arm around Paul's shoulders, pulling him into a careful embrace. And where had everyone else gone to? He wished he'd listened to the EMTs more closely, after all.

Paul's miserable sobs continued, making him feel completely at a loss as of what he was supposed to do in this situation. He had no clue where these tears had come from at all. Was it because Paul was still scared? Or was he feeling bad? Was there something bothering him? He could think of so many questions to ask but not a single way to help. He wanted to know how come Paul had overdosed at all. Was it accidental? He couldn't have done it on purpose, could he?

Absently, with his mind still dwelling on what had just happened, Richard placed a soft kiss on the top of Paul's head. They had been friends for a decade, and for the major part of those ten years they'd also been occasional lovers, but it was the first time Richard had seen him in such a vulnerable state. He'd never encountered a crying Paul either, and it left him even more confused. His head was pounding, and the only thing Richard really wished for was that this never-ending day would finally be over. He wanted to get away from this disgusting dressing room, have a shower and huddle into a blanket at last. Somewhere far away from here, spared the tiresome daily routine of constant journeys, tour buses and crowds. And preferably next to Paul, but the one who was smiling and joking instead of crying on his shoulder like this.

"Shhh…" Richard whispered, feeling hopelessly inadequate. "It's okay, Paul. It's alright now."

To his genuine distress, his words only provoked another sequence of quiet sobs.

"I'm here with you, it's gonna be alright, you'll be okay," he cooed again and then just let himself go off on a tangent, wanting so dearly to soothe, and to his own surprise, he heard himself mumbling, _"I love you"_.  
  
Those three little words seemed to have slipped off his tongue so easily that Richard couldn't help saying them again. And again. And again, until the sobs had subsided and, to his genuine relief, turned into quiet, even breathing. He remained beside Paul for a while, still holding him close but thinking that he ought to go and find Emu at last to learn what they were going to do now, when the dressing room door opened and through the opening the man himself silently motioned for him to come. Richard gave him a nod, carefully untangling his arms and leaving Paul to drift off to a medicine-induced sleep.

**_2003, New York. And raining._ **

_A part of Richard wants to forget all that happened that night – there is nothing particularly pleasant about the memory of how one of his closest friends might have simply died, even if eventually it turned out that Paul really wasn't going to. Still, it remains the most frightening thing he's ever experienced to date, those few minutes of pure horror until he heard that Paul's life wasn't in danger. The other part of him, though, clings to those recollections the best it can – he's never managed to be that close to Paul, neither before nor after, that accident. And now, four years later, Richard finally knows that it is something he wishes to revive most of all – the trust they once used to share._

_It's been raining heavily in New York all morning through. A boisterous, summery kind of shower, with hefty raindrops drumming against the window sill, which fills the space with a constant hum until it starts to seem to Richard as if it's humming right inside of his skull. He inhales another dose of nicotine and lets out a cloud of grey smoke at his leisure, watching it disappear through the slightly ajar window. He doesn't care that he's smoking in the bedroom again – since he and his wife separated, he can smoke wherever he damn well pleases._

_Looking down at the people scurrying along the sodden street below his window, all as one under umbrellas and trying to avoid the most perilous of puddles, Richard wonders what would have happened if he'd never said that crucial 'I love you' for the first time, holding Paul close in that godforsaken little excuse for a dressing room. Would he have said it later all the same, and everything would still have happened as it did, or would they have remained friends and bedmates, without any strings attached? The fool that he was, he did really think things were going to remain simple._

**1999, America.**

By the time he was out of the dressing room and facing their manager, Richard was sure that half of the world was already aware of what had happened, as well as of what kind of relationship he had with Paul. A double scandal, nonetheless – the press would have a field day. He didn't have any strength left to care, though. To his surprise, however, everything seemed to be quiet – no hustle, no people with cameras and no police. Somehow, probably because of the seasoned crew's amazing managing skills, or maybe just due to a lucky coincidence, what had happened remained within the frayed walls of the dressing room he'd just left.

The good old scolding, which Richard had also expected, didn't happen either; he was only asked if he had any idea why the hell Paul so uncharacteristically had gone overboard with the party favours. Since Richard wanted to know the very same thing, they assumed it would be better to ask the man in question instead, once he'd come back to his senses.

"He'll need some sound sleep, a healthy diet and lots of fresh air," the manager said after he'd retold Richard everything the paramedics had prescribed. "Can I trust you that you won't let him mess something up again?"

" _Me_?" Richard tiredly echoed. "Why me? You know Paul – he doesn't usually make any announcements before he decides to fuck something up."

"Because I'm going to send the two of you away for these few days, until the next show," their manager said, fixing his dark, omniscient eyes on him. "I happen to have friends in Virginia who have a vacant cabin up in the mountains – fresh air, trees all around, and neither drugs nor paparazzi within a 100-mile radius – just what the doctor ordered. It's on our way to the next venue anyway, so we'll just drop you off there."

He fell silent apparently waiting for Richard's reaction, but Richard felt so physically and mentally exhausted that he wouldn't have objected even if he decided to send them off to Mars.

"I could have asked Christian – they've known each other for ages, he'd surely know how to deal with him--"

"I know how to deal with him just as well," Richard blurted out defensively, only belatedly noticing the smirk which crept onto Emu's face. The knowing kind, which made Richard think that even if they hadn't been busted a while ago, he'd definitely done so now.

"That's why I'm asking _you_ to go, and not someone else." There was no cheekiness in the manager's voice, though – it remained utterly serious.

"I will," Richard said quietly, unable to endure his steady gaze. "And for how long have you known… y'know, about…" he hesitantly asked, not really understanding why he was wondering at all.

"I don't know anything, Richard," the manager shook his head. "It's no concern of mine, you're grown up enough to do whatever you want. All I thought I had to ask I've already asked." When Richard gave a silent nod, the man continued, "The bus's scheduled to leave in half an hour. We'll drop you off at the cabin early in the morning."

Said and done, there they were, riding the bus through the night on their way to the peace and quiet of some secluded mountain village, where they were due to stay for the upcoming three days. Richard couldn't imagine what on Earth they were going to do there, but at that moment it was just a minor concern. The regular thuds of Paul's heart, which Richard could distinctly feel against his own palm, and his soft breathing were the only things that really mattered, and he silently thanked whatever it was up there for letting it all end up so well.

They were snuggled close to each other on a narrow bunk of their tour bus. It was actually so narrow that one of them had to constantly lie on his side just to be able to fit in it. Richard would've occupied the one just opposite since Till had offered to move to Paul's one up above, but Paul's voice had sounded so genuinely distressed when he'd asked him not to leave that Richard couldn't refuse. Not that he'd wanted to, either.

He had always been reluctant to openly show his feelings for Paul in front of the rest of the band, especially after they'd founded Rammstein, even though the other guys had known about them for almost as long as it had lasted, and really, there wasn't much to show off either. Show what? They were friends, and that was absolutely fine with the rest, and they occasionally fucked, and that was none of their business. Still, every single time – even though it didn't happen very often, especially not during the past few years – when the topic of his and Paul's sexual relationship was brought up in some silly joke, he felt like strangling the jester, grinding it into his head that he still was and had always been a ladies' man despite his encounters with Paul. He would also prefer to conceal the fact that his fellow guitarist wasn't the only male he'd ever had sex with. It was just sex, wasn't it?

Hitherto Richard would never have dared to be this close and intimate with Paul in the presence of the rest of his bandmates, no matter how pitch-dark it was inside the tour bus and how exhausted any of them were to be able to pay attention or even care, for that matter. Right now, though, the warmth he and Paul were sharing was too precious to part with. Besides, Richard was still somewhat under the influence of the shock he'd experienced only a couple of hours ago, when the possibility of losing Paul was all too real, so he didn't feel like letting him go anywhere at all.

"Cold," Paul drowsily muttered and tried to snuggle up a little closer, even though closer than they already were didn't seem to be physically possible.

Still, Richard gently tightened the protective circle of his arms around his friend's limp frame and tucked the light blanket a little more snugly around them, hoping Paul would manage to catch at least a few hours of sleep before they arrived at that middle of nowhere they were supposed to spend the following days in. As to him, it seemed he was exhausted to the extent where he simply wasn't able to pass out. All he could do was to lie still and listen to the muffled hum of the bus engine and Paul's soft breathing, counting the passing hours.


	2. Chapter 2

_Never opened myself this way  
Life is ours, we live it our way  
All these words I don't just say  
And nothing else matters  
  
Trust I seek and I find in you  
Every day for us something new  
Open mind for a different view  
And nothing else matters.*(c)_

**_2003, New York._ **

_There's a compartment in Richard's wallet which contains a miniature of a photo taken a few years ago. It is pretty shabby from being constantly kept in there, and as it gets less distinct, the memories it reminds of seem to fade as well, as if it all was just some happy dream. Still, realistic or not, Richard is sure those recollections will be haunting him until the end of his days, making him ask on, simple question over and over again – how come they fucked it all up so effortlessly?_

**1999, the middle of nowhere in Virginia.**

Richard was standing on a square wooden terrace, with the smouldering remains of his cigarette stuck in between his fingers, his glazed eyes staring into nothingness. The old slightly shrivelled boards beneath him creaked quietly every now and then as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Below, a vast slope covered with pine and oak trees stretched as far as the eye could see, and on the horizon, numerous hills spread vast, swathed in pale, milky fog. It left only their summits looming above, like an archipelago of small, green and blue, islands in an endless sea of white. Just below the terrace, the mist was hovering low, in places revealing an upthrust boulder or some fuzzy underbrush unfamiliar to him.

It was an early morning, still and cool, and the air felt damp and fresh on Richard's skin. He was wearing nothing but his t-shirt and sweat pants, which he'd slipped into right before they finally managed to get away from the venue, and the cool air creeping underneath his clothes made a light shiver shake his body from time to time. Still, he stubbornly lingered on the terrace, occasionally pulling a drag from his cigarette as he watched the world waking up to greet the new day. In the east, the sun had already claimed the morning sky, but it still remained hidden behind a thin, almost transparent, veil of mist. Nonetheless, with every passing minute, it coloured the foggy ridges far in the distance into all possible hues of white, pink and golden. The trees closed in around him, keeping the night shadows in place. They, along with the enormity of the wood-covered hills which spread out in front of him, made Richard feel a grain of sand in comparison with this mighty vastness of almost untouched wilderness.

He was fatigued from the busy day and the subsequent sleepless night, but it felt like the nature itself was somehow absorbing his weariness. The view was stirring up something deep inside his chest, as he stood captivated by the splendour before him. Did he just want to stay here and watch? Or maybe find a piece of paper and let some incoherent words flow and merge into sentences? Did he want to fetch his guitar and play something?

Richard did neither. On the spur of the moment, he quietly tip-toed back inside the cabin, and then even more carefully, into one of the two small bedrooms. He even tried to hold his breath – Paul was sleeping and he would hate to disturb him after all that had happened the night before. He did hesitate beside the bed, though, to make sure the man was indeed fast asleep, cosily curled up under a thick duvet with his face buried into the crease between the pillows. His cheeks were still stained by the stage make-up, and Richard could even detect a whiff of pyro in the air. A wan smile curled his lips, but he didn't dare to linger there for long. Instead, he sneaked up to his suitcase, fished out his small camera and headed back towards the terrace.

It was one of the most generic types of cameras, easy to use and perfect while on the road, so thankfully, he didn't have to tweak with any settings. All that was required from him was to press the little button, which Richard did as soon as he'd focused on the mist-shrouded hills far in the distance. The shutter produced a soft click, the only mechanical sound in this realm of peace and quiet, somehow alerting him of that he'd had enough of freezing his butt off out here in the morning chill. He quietly returned inside, nursing a hope that in the end, the picture would come out fine. He didn't know why he wanted this so much – he wasn't even very fond of photography, not like Paul was, for example – but he knew he would like to see this serene scenery again someday.

The pleasant scent of forest was perceptible even inside the cabin, as if its very walls were saturated with it. It was warm, clean and unusually quiet in there, a feeling so different from the stuffy hotel rooms they slept in. It was literally beckoning Richard to forget about everything and give in to sweet, healing sleep, and finally he couldn't resist it anymore. He undressed, carefully folding his clothes and leaving them on the armchair beside the bed, and cautiously settled down beside Paul.

The duvet was remarkably light and soft. It enveloped him like a fluffy cloud, finally giving him the warmth his body had needed so much. Paul must have felt his careful movements since he grunted something incoherent and, without opening his eyes, rolled over, bumping his nose against Richard's chest. Having him this close felt even better than being wrapped into this wonderful duvet, and that in turn provoked another warm sensation, but this time inside of him, and thus, Richard found both his body and soul blanketed into something nice and heart-warming.

**_2003, New York._ **

_Richard still isn't sure why he insists on dragging that tiny photograph everywhere, no matter where he's headed. It didn't even come out very well – blurry and overexposed, apparently due to the lighting conditions and his own hands shaking from exhaustion. Nonetheless, he's been stubbornly refusing to part with the snapshot. It's with a bitter smirk he taps the ashes off his cigarette against the window sill, because he can't even say that this photo has become a lucky charm – it definitely hasn't. He's been through too much shit to give it the honour of being called a talisman, after all._

_It's three more hours before Paul's plane is due to land at the JFK, and Richard has no idea how to kill the time, except for chain-smoking and staring at the pissing down rain and the pissed off pedestrians. And reminiscing, too, as if this kind of weather has kindled a nostalgic spark inside of him._

_Not the best of pastimes, Richard reckons with a sigh. He's grown too tired of constantly looking back at things he doesn't have anymore. Once he was in a band with five other people he could easily call his closest friends, and now they're all thousands of miles apart, and a bit fed up with one another, to put it mildly. Once he owned every single one of Paul's kisses, listening to him say 'love' with a smile on his lips. But neither Paul's love nor his kisses belong to Richard anymore. Once he thought he was a happily married man, but here he is, all alone in this huge, rented flat not having heard from his wife for at least a few weeks because he's finally managed to piss off even this, rather level-headed and patient woman._

_And he's so tired, tired of this endless string of failures which seem to keep following him like an over-infatuated puppy no matter what he does._

**1999, Virginia.**

The first day he and Paul spent in that remote little cottage was quiet and sleepy. It was way past midday when they finally gathered enough strength to get out of bed, relatively well-rested. Well, Richard indeed felt quite revitalized thanks to the fresh air and the unusual silence, save the constant chirping of birds and the muted chirr of grasshoppers, which blended into a perfect background buzz. Paul, however, looked pretty far from being happy. That didn't really surprise Richard, though – he had been informed about the possible emotional plunge and general weakness which followed an amphetamine overdose. Both were duly present, along with a headache and the lack of appetite, altogether depriving Paul of any desire to leave the bed. He made do with just occasional visits to the bathroom or to the terrace, discontentedly squinting at the bright sunshine and muttering something under his breath.

Richard had to almost coerce him to eat some breakfast, or lunch, rather, if time of day were to be taken into consideration. Paul kept stubbornly telling him that he wasn't hungry, so Richard had to resort to persuasion first, then to reasoning with the capricious patient and finally to pleading. He ended up threatening to leave and send Flake in his place, whose sermons would definitely manage to turn Paul's miserable existence into even greater torture unless he ate something.

On any other day, Richard would definitely be told to fuck off and mind his own damn business, but this time, Paul didn't seem to have enough strength left for arguing – in the end, he did consent to chew on some cheese and have a little canned vegetable soup, with complaisance totally uncharacteristic of his usual obstinate self. What was more, he was being oddly timid and resigned, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, which in addition to his pallid cheeks, dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his hands, made him look even more pitiful.

That was something Richard wasn't used to at all – he knew that Paul loathed being pitied. He was much more accustomed to the smiling Paul, the joking Paul, the sarcastic and stubborn Paul, even the pissed off Paul, but he'd never had the chance to see the man so completely off his game. He'd always been determined and headstrong, at least that was what he had them all believe, but now Richard suspected he direly needed to be given a break from it.

So he didn't scrimp care. Every now and then, he would give Paul a quick kiss, brush his hand, or simply hold him close. And Paul didn't seem to mind at all. On the contrary, he was seeking that physical contact and every time he resigned to his embrace, it made Richard remember what exactly he'd been repeating over and over the night before. He was also curious whether Paul remembered it, too.

Those very thoughts lured him back onto the terrace come evening, when he was sure Paul had long fallen asleep. He'd stayed with him awhile but since he hadn't felt like sleeping, he'd watched a silly thriller about yet another one of those maniacs that the Hollywood was so fond of. He ended up outside, sitting in a recliner, in the company of his acoustic guitar and the mountain ridge as a suitable backdrop. The sun had just sunk below the craggy line of the horizon, turning the sky in the west into a magnificent canvas of tinges, varying from golden to purple to ultramarine. A few clouds stretched low just above the foothill summits, the last rays of the vanished sun making them look darker and more grotesque than they really were. The view spurred on Richard's inspiration, and the melody flowed unrestrained; slow, sad and gentle, as if this very place, with its mists, hills and spruce trees, was nourishing it.

He was so absorbed in the music that he didn't notice exactly when Paul appeared on the terrace – he just suddenly saw him sitting on the wooden banister a few feet away. He was huddling in a hoodie and somehow closely resembled a petit ruffled sparrow. The thought made Richard chuckle, and he put his guitar aside.

"I thought you were asleep."

Paul just stuck his hands deeper into his pockets, and shook his head. "Don't stop. It's beautiful."

So Richard took the guitar once again and continued, silently remarking that Paul having no criticism to express was also pretty unusual. He didn't miss that particular detail, though – they weren't in the studio, after all; all he was doing was to simply enjoying himself.

He didn't play for long, however. It was all nice and relaxing, but with Paul within reach, Richard found himself wishing to be able to hug his subtle body rather than the polished wooden curves of his guitar. And of course, he soon fell for the temptation, abandoning the instrument on the recliner and finding himself a much cosier place in between Paul's thighs. That, for once, made the man the taller of the two, and with no more than an inch left between his face and Paul's neck, Richard didn't waste the opportunity to rub the tip of his nose against the soap smelling skin of his lover, as his hands came to rest on the small of his back.

"You should play it to Till, he might find some lyrics to go along with it," Paul said, holding on to Richard's upper arms.

"We'll see once we're back in the studio," he smiled in reply. "I take it you're feeling better since you can actually talk about work."

"Yeah. This place seems to be working miracles."

Paul had the gist of it, indeed. The sky had grown a darker shade of blue, and the first stars had already shown up, tiny, shimmering dots millions of light years away. The pale crescent of the moon had finally clambered above the tree tops, illuminating the pines with its cold, silvery glow. The night was still and pretty warm, filled with various earthy scents.

"We can always come back here, you know?" Richard said quietly, resting his chin on Paul's shoulder. "Just you and I, whenever we'd like to."

The cold, pristine moonlight was somehow making this moment even more romantic, and Richard willingly gave in to it, drinking in every smell and sensation. All those silly clichés about romantic gazing over picturesque moonlit sceneries didn't seem all that silly to him anymore, no matter how much fun he would have made out of it before. All that mattered now was that he was finally able to hug his sweetheart close, contently grinning like a moron. Never mind if he looked goofy, never mind that his sweetheart has stubble on his chin, never mind anything else besides here and now – Richard closed his eyes and let the scent of Paul's recently washed longish hair intoxicate him instead. Love which he'd refused to acknowledge for so long didn't seem to be all that bad, after all.

"Paul?" he called softly, tentatively moving his hands across the other man's waist.

"Mmm?" Paul hummed by way of response, pressing his warm cheek a bit more snugly to his.

"Don't ever do something like that again, okay?"

Richard couldn’t say why he'd brought it up right now, perfectly aware that this was probably the last thing Paul would like to discuss in his present, still rather unsettled, condition. He couldn't help it, though – the words just rolled off his tongue, and he couldn't just suck them back in.

Paul's tired sigh brushed against his temple, and for a moment Richard was sure he'd just said something so out of place that it was inevitably going to ruin this precious intimacy.

"I've already said I'm sorry, Richard…" he muttered, but to Richard's surprise and relief, not a hint of irritation was present in his voice. "How many more times must I repeat it? I don't know how the hell it happened…"

"I'm not talking about being sorry," Richard shook his head, letting one of his hands slide all the way up until it froze over the protruding bones of Paul's spine, in between his shoulder blades. "You can save all your apologies for Emu, I'm sure he'll want to hear every single one of them."

Paul emitted a faint, unamused kind of chuckle. "What then?"

"You scared the living hell out of me, that's what. Don't do that, Paul. Don't scare me that much again, okay?"

"I wasn't going--"

"Because, you know, for a while I thought it was over, that I was going to lose you." Richard shook his head in disbelief – it still seemed to him like a nightmare, and he hoped it would remain that way from now on – nothing more than a horrible dream. "That sucked."

Paul huffed at his last remark, and the sound made a very vivid image of his smiling lines appear in front of Richard's mind eye.

"That's not that funny. I don't want to lose you, you bloody fool. Not yet."

Instead of a reply, Paul hugged him a little tighter. Before any of them started talking again, a few minutes of silence slipped by, filled with only the sounds of the night and their soft breathing.

"I love you, Paul," Richard muttered into the darkness, not lifting his chin off Paul's shoulder.

He didn't know what kind of reaction his words might provoke this time, just as he didn't know which he hoped to receive. They had been sharing a bed for almost a decade, but there seemed to be a silent agreement between them, a consensus that it was nothing more than really good sex. They had never made any promises, it had never been about feelings, at least that's what Richard had persistently told himself. Until now.

"You've said it before, right? Back there in the dressing room?" Paul asked quietly.

Richard couldn't help an amused chuckle, still staring at the night's shadows which by now had crept a little closer to them.

"You remember it? I thought you were barely conscious."

"I do," Paul trailed off. "Thank you."

"Me?" Richard hid his face in the soft fabric of his hoodie, trying to stifle a somewhat embarrassed snort – it wasn't every day that he awkwardly confessed his feelings to his friend, after all. "Why?"

Paul just shrugged. "It helped. Do you think it'll make things more complicated if I say that it's been mutual for quite a while?"

Richard squeezed his eyelids shut, feeling both ridiculously happy and uncomfortably confused. It was as if something was clenching him tightly in the region of his solar plexus, making him go weak at the knees. He didn't seem to be able to think anymore.

"I don't know… I hope not?"

While he was struggling to regain his breathing ability, Paul remained discreetly silent. His movements were much more expressive, though, as he clung a little closer to him, until his crotch was snugly pressed to Richard's stomach. The sensation incited a soft, slightly breathless sigh, which was almost instantly stolen by Paul's moist lips.

"I like it," he mumbled, nervously swallowing, and briefly placed another airy kiss on Richard's mouth. "If it's love, I like how it feels."

Paul's hoarse whisper remained on the edge being audible, but Richard could distinguish every single syllable nonetheless. He grinned as they kissed, and his smile grew even wider as he felt his lover's legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him into the most intimate, full limb embrace of his life. One of Richard's hands instinctively slid lower, until it found Paul's firm little behind, gently cupping one of his buttocks and eliciting an ever so erotic sigh, right next to his own ear. The mere thought of that he was actually the reason for Paul's aroused condition was thrilling, and lustfully intoxicating. Or was it love now? No matter what it was, though, Paul was right – it did feel good.

"So what does it make us?" Paul finally pulled away, licking his lips and taking a deep, slightly quivering inhale.

His voice was uncertain, as if he didn't really know how to wrap it up, but Richard thought he understood him nonetheless – Paul had just recently started dating his new girlfriend, a bright, smiling creature, and they seemed to be perfectly in love with each other. Apparently, he didn't want anything to affect that, and truth be told, neither did Richard. Paul might as well get himself a whole damn harem, for all what he cared – as long as he could get his share of the desire and passion which had always belonged solely to him.

"Look, I'm not…" Richard interrupted himself.

Suddenly, it didn't seem all that easy anymore – explaining that no woman could ever stand in their way. They had managed to pull through the past ten years, right? But it was still pretty difficult to translate his thoughts into human language, even more so when he could feel the tension in the region of Paul's crotch against his own stomach.

"I'm not really talking of commitment or implying that you should mess up your own relationship because of us." Richard sank his teeth into his bottom lip saying _'us'_ since the little word had suddenly gained a brand-new meaning. "I know it'll never be possible to compare – she's got something I'll never be able to give you, and the other way around, so… can we just, you know, combine it all, like we've been doing so far, you think?"

"So, if girlfriends are out of question…" Paul trailed off, sinking into a thoughtful silence again.

"Then…?" Richard encouraged him.

"Do I have the right to get jealous if you just slip away with some random guy again?"

Richard froze, his hand uncertainly stopping at the small of Paul's back. How did he know about _that_?!

He heard Paul softly snort. "I know you've done it before."

"And you got jealous?" Anxiety mixed with curiosity in Richard's voice – he couldn't tell if he was more shocked by the fact that Paul knew about it, or amused by that it was actually bothering him.

"Yeah," Paul simply said, which surprised Richard even more – he wasn't used to hearing confessions like these from his otherwise rather easy-going bedmate.

They all joked about each other's conquests, but some things were kept quiet, as if by a silent code of honour.

"But I thought there was no point in bringing up the topic since… well, who was I to get jealous?"

"I…" Richard's words got literally stuck in his throat.

Paul had indeed been his first, but as it happened, not the only man he had ever slept with. Not many, but there had been a few, even though Richard could hardly remember their names or what they looked like. The only reason he had actually done that was because he'd been sure that Paul was too busy elsewhere.

"Never mind," Paul smirked at him through the darkness. "Forget I said that."

Now _that_ was more like him – to try and hide behind his protective shield of not being bothered by anything – but Richard wasn't going to allow it this time. For once in a lifetime, he had the chance to witness Paul being so honest about what he was feeling, and he wasn't going to just let the moment slip away.

"But… it was never my intention to make you feel that way. It's just that I thought you had something or someone better to do rather than… I'd have come to you if I'd known you wanted me."

"So if you once again decide that for some reason I don't want you, am I allowed to get a bit affronted, huh? Thinking that you've found someone who can give you more than I can?"

There was a hint of a smile in Paul's voice, so Richard allowed himself a grin of relief as well.

"Yeah, but do you realise that now I have the right to bother you whenever I want?" He playfully nibbled at Paul's jaw bone. "And I want you a lot."

"Why don't you just prove it then, eh?" Paul chuckled. " _Love_."

**_2003, New York._ **

_Lighting up another cigarette, Richard wonders why human memory works this way. It's been four years since that moment, but that quiet, seductively provocative 'love' keeps echoing inside his head as distinctly as if Paul himself was standing right next to him and whispering it into his ear. And if he closes his eyes, a long string of images surfaces, one brighter than the other – the way Paul's hands were squeezing around his biceps, sliding off the sweaty skin, and the way a muffled sequence of incoherent obscenities left his mouth until it was drowned in a moist, lustful kiss. He can still feel the rush in his veins, the irresistible desire to please and possess mingled together. He can taste the saltiness of Paul's skin on the tip of his tongue and feel the coarse touch of his chin on the side of his throat._

_The memories are so incredibly real that they make Richard's breath quiver, and he helplessly lets his eyes close, shutting out the rainy morning of New York and traveling back in time into the still, moonlit night in the misty mountains of Virginia. He wanted to remember that night, and he did, even though now he isn't sure whether it is a blessing or a curse._

**1999, Virginia.**

They all but stumbled into the bedroom, kissing vigorously and fighting off each other's clothes the best their position would allow them to, ending up beside the window instead of the bed. There were no streetlights to diffuse the moonlight seeping in through the glass, no billboards or illuminated windows, only darkness accentuating the silvery quality of the moon so well. Darkness was inside the bedroom, too, enfolding them into its soft, black velvet.

All that occupied Richard's every single sense, however, was his lover. All he could see when he occasionally opened his eyes were Paul's features, distorted by pleasure, his tightly pinched eyelids, his parted dry lips, and his ruffled hair. All he could hear were Paul's irregular gasps mixed with elaborate curses sporadically leaving his mouth, and his own name, time and again rolling off the tip of his lover's nimble tongue. His scent was driving Richard delirious, that heavy, masculine odour which had made him lose all self-control ever since their first night together so many years ago.

Paul was perched up on the wide window-sill, one hand clutching at its wooden edge, the fingers of the other buried deep into Richard's hair. His grip tightened with every single thrust of Richard's hips, which caused him a considerable amount of pain, but he didn't mind it at all. On the contrary, he welcomed the distracting sensations – without them it would be much more challenging to postpone the inevitable, and he was yearning to make it last. The feelings they so unexpectedly confessed were already making it much more special, but Richard wanted it to be even more personal. Even more intimate. Even more memorable, because this night, in such a magical place, was definitely worth remembering.

He wished he could give Paul more pleasure, even though the man was already on the verge of a blissful delirium, not even responding to Richard's kisses anymore but producing quivering, whimpering moans with Richard's every single movement inside of him and his every caress. He was so magnificently hot and tight and beautiful, with his damp skin sliding smoothly against Richard's, that it felt like he had found heaven on Earth. He was losing himself in Paul, quickening up the pace of his rhythmical thrusts almost against his own will, just to be able to more acutely feel how his testicles repeatedly slapped Paul's taut little behind and to see how his lover's balls were sliding along the shaft of his thick, erected cock. He wanted to savour the sensation of the hard, hot, throbbing flesh in his hand and to watch how Paul's eyes rolled and his mouth hung open as he leaned back against the dark window-pane, his every single muscle literally vibrating in the anticipation of the inevitable rush, which was almost painfully close now.

As Paul's semen spattered over his stomach, all Richard could hear through the brilliant mist of pleasure that had filled his head was a flow of quiet _'love you's_ , so beautiful in their desperate simplicity. The intimacy of the embrace which followed his Paul's release would have definitely taken Richard's breath away if only there had been something left to take away at all. He was panting heavily, struggling for every single corpuscle of air when Paul's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer until he was clinging to his damp, sweaty body. Richard was still inside of him, feeling every little contraction of his muscles; and the intensity with which they clenched around him made a quivering whine escape his lips. He was unbearably sensitive even despite the condom, and even a light pressure was more than enough to propel him into his own fit of sweet, heavenly shivers. Richard let out a soft, weak sigh, letting his forehead tiredly lean against Paul's bony shoulder as he struggled not to drown in this inexplicable sensation of mutual trust, as if their very souls, stripped bare, were merging into one.

**_2003, New York._ **

Open, _Richard muses while watching how a plump woman dressed into a blue plastic raincoat is walking a small and unmistakably miserable dog, with reluctant paws trotting in tow of her relentless owner on the wet asphalt._

_Open was the most accurate word to describe Paul during those three short days they spent in that wonderland of a place, Richard suddenly realises, thoughtfully chewing on his bottom lip and absently trifling with the filter of his burnt-out cigarette. Paul's trust was what was so unusual, even if it was most likely due to his physically and emotionally low state, and now, as Richard watches the cold raindrops hitting the window-pane, he wonders if he'll ever manage to win it back. They have done each other so much wrong since that moment, but even despite all that, he wants to believe the bonds can still be mended. Well, they_ must _be mended, or there can be no way they will manage to go on with Rammstein. They'll have to try to do it, at least for the sake of the band if not for themselves. But still, stubbornly, Richard refuses to abandon the hope that those feelings they shared so long ago can somehow be revived. Paul wouldn't bother to travel all the way here from Berlin to just tell him it is over, would he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Nothing Else Matters by Metallica.
> 
> To the hills of Virginia which I have been dreaming of for a couple of decades now.


	3. Chapter 3

_In a manner of speaking  
I don't understand  
How love in silence becomes reprimand  
But the way that I feel about you  
Is beyond words_

_Oh give me the words  
Give me the words  
That tell me nothing  
Oh give me the words  
Give me the words  
That tell me everything.*(c)_

**_2003, still above the Atlantic._ **

_"Bitte schnallen Sie sich an."_

_The flight attendant is speaking German, but her pleasant voice has a distinctly American accent. Not surprisingly, though – after all, Paul's on his way to America, on board of an American plane, owned by an American airline company. It suddenly makes him wonder what Richard sounds like now when he speaks English – he must have spent enough time in the country to have assimilated, even into its very culture. Paul smirks to himself, remembering that Till told him the other day that he had an idea for a lyric based on the American topic. It could evolve into something amusing if things work out well._

_How well depends on whether this holiday of his is going to work out or not. Till's words still resound in Paul's head, like an annoying buzz of some insect you just can't get away from. It doesn't let him relax and forget himself, even if for the time being._

"He isn't happy there, Paul. You aren't happy here either. Why don't you just--"

"Why don't we _what_?" Paul asked him back then, but Till only shrugged, leaving it to him to rack his brain over what they should finally do.

_As the plane hits turbulence and starts to shake, Paul closes his eyes tightly, trying to take his mind off the unpleasantly unsettling feeling in the depths of his stomach. He can't tell for sure if it's solely the turbulence's fault, or maybe it's happening since he still has no idea what he and Richard must do to make everyone happy again. They never even discussed the reason of his visit – Paul just called him a few days ago, expecting to be confronted by anything from anger to cold restraint. What he got in reply, though, was a delighted,_ 'Sure thing, come whenever you want!' _, which, through the phone receiver, sounded suspiciously genuine._

He isn't happy, Paul. You aren't happy either…

_It makes Paul wonder why they stopped being happy. Physical longing was out of the question – it just can't have made it all that wretchedly complicated. He has always wanted Richard, from the very moment they got to know each other, even though he didn't even have the slightest clue for quite a while as to why he was so drawn to that arrogant, ambitious youngster. However, it all fell into place one night, after the very first kiss they shared, awkward and passionate at the same time, more a challenge than anything else. They were both waiting for the other to give in and run off with his tail between his legs, being designated a pathetic sissy forever after. None of them did, though, and the deeper their kiss got, the less willpower to break it they seemed to have. They ended up in the same bed just a few hours later, and if there had ever been any regrets as to what had happened, their mutual yearning overpowered them all the same._

_Paul still doesn't know for sure if Richard ever felt any guilt during their years-long affair – they've never discussed it seriously enough, simply accepting the fact that there didn't seem to be anything which could be done about their desires. He is certain Richard must have had some reservations when it was only beginning, torn between the sexual appeal and fear. To Paul, it didn't come all that easily either, no matter how carefree he seemed to be in those days – he was a man after all, wasn't he? He'd even been married once, and somewhere at the back of his mind, there was always a wish that one day he'd finally settle down and have a family, in the proper sense of the word. But there he was nonetheless, either vigorously thrusting his dick up Richard's tempting behind or spreading his own legs in front of him, incoherently pleading the man to fuck him harder._

_Eventually, it turned out that all his worries were rather unfounded – somehow his guilty conscience calmed down pretty soon, and so did Richard's. They weren't doing anything criminal, after all, were they? It was all about having fun, what did it matter who he screwed? They remained friends and colleagues – nothing extraordinary at all except that he wanted Richard desperately and Richard wanted him back just as much, and so they scratched that itch. Somewhere along the way Richard turned into someone he thought he could love, and that wasn't even that surprising. If they were friends, why couldn't they be lovers as well? Their occasional encounters had never interfered with anything before, surely love couldn't get in the way of what they were doing then._

_A quiet huff escapes Paul's lips as he rolls up the copy of Berliner Zeitung he'd bought from one of the airport newsagents – he couldn't have been more wrong back then. He was so exceptionally wrong it is almost ridiculous. So here they are, only four years later, living on different continents to be as far from each other as possible. They aren't happy, they aren't friends, they aren't lovers, they can hardly even be called colleagues anymore because none of them knows whether they'll ever be able to handle working together ever again._

_Paul uncomfortably fidgets in his seat, wishing he could just stop remembering stuff. Annoyed, he unrolls the newspaper, making another vain attempt to read – the letters still form words, but they make no fucking sense and that annoys him even more. He doesn't really want all those memories to arise. If they absolutely must, he'd prefer at least something cheerful – he's on his way to somehow make up with Richard and he doesn't need those bitter stories of old to taint his mood even before he reaches his destination._

_But they aren't cheerful at all._

He isn't happy. You aren't happy.

_How on Earth should he make them happy? Will a handshake and a few glasses of the local piss they call beer do the job? Or will they have to swallow their pride and suffer through a heart-to-heart talk they have been avoiding for so long? Why is he the one going to New York at all? Since when has he become a goodwill ambassador? Why couldn't Till or Schneider have taken care of things while they were visiting Richard? He'd have accepted whatever bullshit they'd fed him. But no, here he is, on a plane that's bringing him closer to the very epitome of the unknown, at the speed of five hundred miles per hour. And there are still too many miles and hours ahead – that's what Paul hates about New York most of all, that the city is so tediously far away. All he really wants right now is to be back home with his family – the people who understand him and accept him the way he bloody is – and never again meddle with his and Richard's fucked up relationship._

**1999, the Baltic sea.**

Those three days he and Richard spent together, surrounded by trees, mists and wood-covered hills looming on the horizon, became a revelation for him, and at the time, Paul was sure it was just the same for Richard. He didn't really expect to hear anything about love, even though, by then, he had suspected for some time that what they had was quite a bit more than he'd initially bargained for. Still, somehow the words fell into place and seemed just right. It was easy to say them, and easier to believe them, especially when his entire world had shrunk to the size of that tiny cottage, with no sign of civilization anywhere within sight, and the only thing which mattered was Richard's caring presence next to him. It was hard to resist, so Paul just gave in. He had just met his girlfriend, that was true, but he didn't have the slightest desire to think about yet non-existent problems. She was far away, in Berlin, and Richard was right there beside him, someone he'd known for years, and it was so much easier to be in love with him – it seemed they'd studied each other inside out by then, every little intimate detail, every single preference, every possible reaction.

_'We could always return here'_ , Richard had told him once, letting him savour the slightly bitter taste of his kiss.

They never did, however. Neither to that cosy little cabin, nor to the feeling of trust and the intimacy they had experienced there. It was as if the fate played a cruel trick on them – they'd been functioning just perfectly before the word ' _love'_ was first pronounced, but once the cat was out of the bag, everything seemed to go straight to hell.

Maybe Paul wasn't being fair, and love had actually nothing to do with the problems that followed. Perhaps, the disaster had already been brewing for quite a while, like a thunderstorm, and it finally started to pour down on them exactly at the moment they'd chosen for their love confessions. Or it might have been that the confessions themselves were wrong in the first place, because somehow it all deteriorated anyway.

They finished the American leg of the tour without any major accidents, save the occasional burns and morning hangovers, still being quite infatuated with each other – as much as they could be, at least, having spent another couple of months together on the road – and then headed for their respective homes. Paul was genuinely glad to finally be back with his significant half – he had missed her a lot, he discovered, while burying his face into her long, fragrant hair as they made love. He knew Richard was also having an affair with some dazzling actress he'd met while they had still been touring the States, but that didn't worry him in the slightest – in a few more months they were going to be together anyway and have as much of each other as they pleased since the pre-production was scheduled for September. 

It didn't turn out to be quite as exciting as Paul had expected, though. Not when everything went off-kilter right on the very first day. Not when his arguments with Richard began. And especially not when the rest of the band started looking at the two of them with genuine surprise, watching how they yelled at each other more and more loudly each time. Paul couldn't blame them for the bewildered glances – after all, the last time they'd all been together, he and Richard had been very blatantly in love and hardly even cared to conceal it.

Something had changed over that time they'd spent apart, although Paul couldn't quite explain what exactly it was. During the break, he hadn't really thought much about Richard or the nearly two months they'd spent acting like a couple of besotted lovers – he'd had enough family matters to deal with, one of them being his charming girlfriend who he was very substantially falling in love with. Too. Still, Paul had taken it for granted that his relationship with Richard would remain the same as on the day they'd parted. That, however, was clearly not going to happen. He hadn't even noticed that elusive change until the moment he finally got a chance to face Richard.

Not in his most horrible nightmares could Paul have predicted what kind of feelings their long-awaited reunion would provoke. Somehow, instead of being all over Richard, he found himself almost ashamed to look him in the eye. It was as if some spell had finally been broken – it might have been the result of his staying off drugs, for one thing – and it gave him the chance to see the full extent of the madness they'd dragged themselves into. He couldn't say that he didn't feel attracted to Richard anymore – no, on the contrary, his body knew what it wanted much better than his brain did. The latter was all of a sudden making itself known, though, making Paul feel like he'd abruptly woken up after an exceptionally boozy night, just to learn that he'd done something utterly stupid. He had never felt anything like that, nor did he expect to experience such an emotion now, after a decade of willingly having sex with Richard without a single thought of shame or regret rearing its ugly head. Even all those years ago, on the morning after his first ever sexual encounter with Richard, confused as he had been by his irresistible urge to fuck him and the need to be with him, he hadn't felt anything like that. Being with Richard felt good and was fun, and to Paul, it was a sufficient justification of what they had done.

Now, however, they must have crossed a line, the one which should have never been crossed, apparently. Was he truly in love with his Richard? Or wasn't it more likely that it had been just a temporary madness which had possessed them both? Paul had been sick and craving care, and Richard had been a bit too shocked – could this have been the reason for their so unexpectedly discovered tenderness towards each other? A part of him hoped that Richard would manage to reassure him that was not the case. Paul was waiting for him to do something – _anything_ – which would either prove to him the existence of those loving feelings, improbable as they were, or bust them as if they were no more than a myth. That did not happen, though, because Richard appeared to be just as uncertain and confused as he was. That definitely didn't help make the matters clearer.

And then it all started – small arguments in the studio caused by disagreements over this or that, blame-gaming and fault-finding. In addition to that, Richard, who had never been the most patient of people, had returned from the States nervous, unusually testy and even more short-tempered, which soon became a recipe for disaster. Little did they know its proportions, though.

To justify himself, Paul could say it wasn't only his opinion – the others did suffer from Richard and his intolerance as well – but according to the man in question, the guilty one was always Paul. And goddamn it, it hurt! It could be because the rest of the band didn't have to remember any muffled love confessions and profound, almost suffocating, feelings that he and Richard shared, even if they were nothing but make-believe. Or maybe it was just that Paul hadn't expected anything of this sort to happen at all. Or maybe he'd expected too much. They squabbled on their first night together, on account of their different views on what the results of their work should sound like in the end, when by all means they should have been making love instead.

They didn't do it then and they didn't do it later, and as days went by, their relationship just kept spiralling downwards – now they would quarrel about any insignificant bullshit. Paul would have never believed he could really sink so low as to brawl over the dirty plates which had been left on the kitchen table or over smoking inside the house, but to his surprise and certain disgust, he did exactly that. The worst was that he knew he wasn't being reasonable – he was being an asshole, as Richard had put it – but he couldn't help himself all the same. In a few weeks he was just so fed up with Richard he simply couldn't shut up in time to prevent another argument. As it turned out, neither could Richard.  
  
Richard's traits of being impulsive and bossy had never been a secret to anyone, but until now, Paul had never seemed to really mind that. He'd been irritated at times, annoyed or angry, but Richard had never before managed to drive him up the wall so easily. And never had it been so hard to find consensus – it was as if they were speaking different languages.

Richard had acquired an irresistible urge to control everyone and everything, and Paul wished he could shove that goddamn desire up his unbearable control-freak's ass. The fact that he'd once wanted to shove something completely different up there, had somehow faded into the background, overshadowed by the constant wish to pummel the man instead. To his genuine disappointment, Paul couldn't even say for sure what exactly had changed – Richard had always been pretty much like this, only now it for some reason started to hurt _him_. Maybe it was his arrogant, domineering attitude to everyone around, maybe the tone of his voice or something malicious in his eyes when he addressed Paul, in particular, or maybe even the fact that somewhere in the back of his mind, Paul still had another vision of them – not as colleagues, but as lovers – but he just couldn't tolerate Richard all the same. They would quarrel so passionately that Till, as the heaviest one, and Oliver, as the designated peace-maker, would have to pull them apart to different corners, fearing they'd actually clobber each other.

And then it ended just as suddenly and as weirdly as it had started, with Richard sodding off to the States, to his own wedding. About which, on top of it all, Paul learned by sheer accident. Before, he'd always considered himself to be forgiving by nature. Now it turned out that he wasn't.

"What do you mean we're having a week off anyway? Why?" he had to ask Till once, after the singer had said something about returning to his beloved village for a week.

What village was he talking about, they were stuck here in the midst of the recording process, no? To Paul's surprise, Till's careless expression faded away, and was replaced by a frown of unease.

"Because Richard's going to New York…" he cautiously replied, making Paul assume that he was holding back something.

"To New York? Why would he go there _now_?"

"Because he's…" Till trailed off, giving Paul a confused glance.

"He's what?"

"You don't know?"

Till was plainly feeling so uncomfortable and reluctant to say anything else it almost pissed Paul off, but he bit his tongue just in time – it wasn't Till's fault that the mere mention of Richard's name was already making him feel as at the end of his tether.

"I don't know _what_?" Paul sighed. "Till, you can't say A without saying B. What's he up to? Has he started dictating his own timetable now?"

"Oh god…" To Paul's even greater surprise, Till let out a partly miserable, partly annoyed breath, chucking the stub of his cigarette into the garbage can. "He told me the other day he's getting married to that girl he met in the States, that's why there's that week off… I thought you knew…"

"It's the first time I've ever heard of it," Paul scoffed, slowly shifting his gaze from the singer to the horizon, where the grey waters of the Baltic sea merged with the equally grey sky, perfectly reflecting Paul's inner condition. "How nice of him."

"Paul, look, I'm…" Till interrupted himself when Paul smiled at him sadly. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't be hearing this from me."

"Nah, Till, it's fine," Paul gave him another smile, as if apologizing for making him feel uncomfortable. The worst thing was that the topic was making him feel just the same – he wasn't keen on discussing his relationship with Richard with anyone, especially not now, when it seemed to be so utterly and unexpectedly fucked up. "So a week off it is. Perfect."

Paul threw his own cigarette away, stuck his hands into his trousers' pockets and headed back into the mansion that had been rented for them for the pre-production period. Till called after him when he was walking up the porch.

"It's alright, Till. I don't mind," he shouted back, waving his hand and hoping to prevent any further discussions on the topic.

In reality, it wasn't particularly alright. Or to be more correct, it wasn't alright at all. The fact of Richard's sudden marriage didn't bother Paul in the slightest – truth be told, he'd known Richard long enough not to be surprised anymore. What did hurt him, though, was being the last person to know about it. Or would he be informed about the wedding at all? This was actually the most painful thing about it – the feeling of being left out after everything they'd once told each other.

_Fuck what they'd told_ , Paul gloomily thought, making his way towards the kitchen to grab himself a bottle of cold beer _. Fuck all those words. Fuck all those hollow promises._ If naught else, this was simply offensive, that he wasn't even worth being told about such a big event in his friend's life.

_Friend's._ Oh well, who was he kidding? Their friendship, as well as their love, if there had ever been such thing at all, was apparently left in the past. All they had now was war and hatred.

To his genuine annoyance, Paul found the kitchen occupied by none other than Richard, the sight of whom worked as a perfect catalyst for his bitter resentment, funnelling his anger even further. The man gave him a brief glance of acknowledgment and turned back to the stove, not saying a word.

This had become their habit as well – they'd been getting on so horribly whenever they accidentally ran in to each other that they both just resorted to shutting up and ignoring the other. Sometimes even a little, innocent remark dropped with no ill intentions could so easily lead to a fight of such biblical proportions that it was astonishing.

So Paul knew to keep his mouth shut, at least for as long as it would take his anger to subside, but that proved to be easier said than done. In his mind, remarks – one more acidic than the other – kept popping up, and it was bloody difficult to keep them back. Besides, Paul couldn't wait to hear what excuses Richard might tell him, if he ever deigned to tell any at all. He did realise that, should he say something to Richard now, he would with all probability be playing it low on Till, but he was too pissed off to be able to think sensibly.

"Don't you want to tell me something, eh?" Paul stopped in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms and legs in a defensive posture.

He knew his tone was vile, just as he knew that he'd worked himself up in advance, but that was pretty much how things had been running for them – the sound of Paul's voice got louder even before his own brain could register the change.

Richard must have detected the fuming intonations very well, though, his silent glance and an arched eyebrow clearly asking Paul what the hell he was on about. Perfect, not only didn't he deserve to know, now he also wasn't worth talking to. This didn't go particularly well with Paul's anger either.

"Oh, c'mon now, don't be such a hypocrite, Richard," he sneered. "It wasn't very nice of you not to tell your best buddy that you're getting married, was it? You know, I might want to give you a wedding gift, after all?"

His voice was literally seething with disdain, but Paul was past giving a damn now. The surprise appearing on Richard's face was providing him with a perverse sort of pleasure, and he inwardly thrived on this sight, now determined to blame, humiliate and defeat this lying bastard who'd once been so much more than just his best buddy.

"I was--" Richard started, but Paul wasn't going to give him the chance to come up with another lie.

"What? Was going to tell me, seriously? Pray tell me when? Maybe you were going to call me right from your goddamn New York, huh?"

Richard's lips thinned into a perfectly furious white line.

"Why don't you get out of here before you start another brawl?"

"Oh, so now you're our sweet saint and I'm the fire-starter, really?"

"Who else? It'd bloody be perfect if you didn't put your two cents into every fucking conversation!" Richard blurted out, obviously losing the fight for self-control, and that only managed to pour more fuel on the flames.

"Don't deflect!" Paul bristled.

Somewhere deep inside of him, the weak, barely audible, voice of his common sense was asking him why the hell he was being so touchy. Paul tried to nip it in the bud – a part of him did really want a good fight, after all.

"And what the fuck do you wanna hear from me then?!" his one-time friend spat. "Yes, I am getting married. Satisfied? Any other questions you might have, as my best buddy, huh? When? In a week, and I can't fucking wait to get away from here!"

Richard took the coffee pot off the stove, almost slamming it down onto the kitchen counter beside him, which made half of its contents spill out onto the already splotchy surface. He cursed under his breath, but in the blink of an eye, his accusatory gaze was glued to Paul again, as if asking what the fuck he was waiting for. Red streaks were lapping up his neck and his eyes looked daggers, as Richard stood akimbo, obviously having a hard time controlling his temper. The ruined coffee was now plainly included into the list of other various evils on Paul's behalf. 

"What the hell is going on, Richard?" he finally asked, all the anger he'd just felt leaving his voice. He was suddenly tired of fighting, and he didn't really know what else he wanted anymore. The desire to blame disappeared just as quickly as it had seized him, making him wish to just get out. To a different planet, if possible.

But Richard seemed to have just started.

"I can ask you just the same! What the fuck is going on, huh?! What the fuck do you want me to do? Why should I be telling you anything at all when you don't seem to have any fucking interest left in me anymore?!"

" _I'm_ not interested?!" Paul stared back at his bandmate in surprise. Now this was getting ridiculous.

"Is there anyone else here? You think I can't see that you can't stand me lately? All you do is keep fucking turning away, so why the hell do you expect me to tell you _anything_ when it's _you_ , in the first place, who never want to spend a single minute to listen to what I'm saying!"

"For god's sake, can you even hear yourself, Richard?! What planet are you living on, huh? Every single person here is moaning from you and your control-freak attitude!"

"All the moaning I know of always comes from you, y'know? Or would you like to be moaning because of something else, huh? Is that why you've been such a bitch lately?"

"You'd better guard your tongue now." Paul's anger was back in an instant.

"Or what?! Or maybe I'm making you jealous again, huh?" Richard almost jeered. "You've been jealous before, are you maybe envious now as well?"

For a few moments Paul just kept staring back at him, taken aback – _that_ he had not expected to hear at all. It was just simply unfair to accuse him of something which wasn't true – he didn't give a fuck about any of his women, and Richard knew it very well. And even if that had been the case, it was even more dishonest to point out his weaknesses, especially the ones which were actually confessed to Richard while Paul was still in a rather unsettled condition. He had been jealous, alright, and he wasn't very happy about it, but he was sure that they'd just laughed it off back then, and that was it. Richard didn't have the fucking right to rub it into his face now, distorting the truth and using it against him, in spite.

It didn't take Paul's anger long to build up enough to make him lose it completely.

"You son of a bitch!" he hissed, darting towards Richard in anticipation of how sweet it would feel when his knuckles would finally meet with his cleanly shaved jaw.

That wasn't destined to happen, though. Paul was so blinded with rage that he could barely register that something had gotten in the way between him and his odious bandmate. He didn't care, though, trying to fight his way through to teach him a lesson, and found himself caught in the iron clench of no one other than Till, who was cursing while trying to pull Paul away.

"Let the fuck go of me!" he growled, attempting to twist out of the lead singer's grip.

"Calm down, Paul," Till said in a calm, almost soothing voice as if he was breaking up a playground fight and had to deal with a couple of obnoxious four-year-olds.

"Better make him go and sort it out with me like a man, before he changes his traitorous mind and shuts me off again!" Richard yelled from behind Till's back, pointing at the kitchen door as if in support of his challenge.

"I have fucking nothing to sort out with you!" Paul once again tried to shake off Till's clench, to no avail. "You can fuck off to your precious New York and never come back, everyone will just sigh a breath of relief at last!"

"Paul, enough!"

"Then don't tell me next time how fucking jealous you are!"

"Richard, damn you!" Till all but barked in despair. No more soothing angry kids, now was the time for the heavy artillery.

"Who the fuck are you to get jealous about?! You can go and bang the Pope himself for all I care!"

Paul was all of a sudden aware of how his entire body was trembling. It seemed to him that he was so furious he could easily just knock Till out of his way. He couldn't, in reality, and it only made him feel even more enraged.

"Just perfect! Try to do without me then, I'd like to see how that's gonna work out for you all!"

Richard finally stepped away and was now pointing his finger at Paul, who still had Till's arm securely around him, depriving him of any movement. Richard's face was flushed and a few strands of his hair had fallen across his brow. But he did look hurt as well – that was something.

"At least we'll be able to function like a group of people, you know, without being bossed around by some delusional control-freak!"

Paul did realise it was high time he'd shut up, but it was too late for that now. He didn't care if Till was there, witnessing this whole meltdown, or anyone else for that matter – all he wanted was to hurt Richard as much as possible in return. He didn't even know in return for _what_ exactly.

"Paul, for god's sake!" Now Till did sound annoyed.

"And you, Till? Was it you who told him?" Richard's voice was full of contempt. "You were the last person I thought who might tattle."

"Richard, go cool off somewhere, will you? If you wanted me to keep it a secret, you should've probably let me know it was a secret."

Till was still blocking Paul's view with his massive figure, and it was making him feel as if he was some cowardly child hiding behind a damn rock. Which didn't exactly add any positive emotions to Paul's wound-up condition.

"Fuck you all then!" Richard spat, heading out of the kitchen and slamming the door shut behind himself with such force it made Till cringe.

"Piece of shit," Paul muttered, rolling his eyes at the closed door.

He tiredly pulled his arm out of Till's clench and made his way towards the door as well, his every single muscle literally trembling with indignation.

"Paul, don't--"

"I'm not going after him, Till, for fuck's sake!"

He angrily pushed the door open, waving his arm at the singer and hoping he would get the message and leave him alone. He didn't even know where he was going, too pissed off and frustrated to notice where his feet were taking him. He ended up slumping down on the backdoor porch, with his face buried in his hands, his head mercilessly pounding, and almost able to feel how the adrenaline was pumping through his bloodstream. A swirl of different emotions seemed to be tearing him apart and driving him completely nuts. Paul had an unbearable urge to go upstairs and punch the living hell out of Richard for what he'd turned their lives into. At the same time, though, he was so drained he was on the brink of bursting into helpless tears, which was even more infuriating.

He was struggling to the best of his abilities to smother those quietly forming sobs in the depths of his throat, when a big hand gave his shoulder a soft squeeze, and one of the dry planks of the porch creaked under Till's weight. Paul didn't even have to look up to know it was him. He bit his lip as hard as he could – least of all he needed to throw another fit after all that had already happened. It was proving to be a difficult task, though.

"Just tell me and I'll leave, okay?"

Till's concerned voice didn't help in the slightest. Paul loathed showing he was hurt, he wanted to pretend he was just as loathsomely indifferent as Richard was, but for fuck's sake, how hard was it! He sucked in a quivering breath, hating himself for not being able to better hide his feelings. Being honest never ended up well – the last time, Richard had been all over him, repeating some stupid love confessions, and where was Richard now?

"Just know that if you ever need to talk it, I'm always here, alright?" Till's soothing voice, along with the minute movements of his hand along Paul's spine, managed to crush the remains of Paul's defence completely, and he finally couldn't help an involuntary, quiet sob, violently pinching the bridge of his nose as if it could prevent the hateful tears.

"I'll be damned if I knew what the hell is going on…" Paul shook his head, making a couple of salty droplets land onto the dry, cracked step.

"I don't know why he's being such a dickhead either…" Till sighed. "He isn't a bad lad, but I've no idea what's gotten into him here."

Paul let out a bitter huff, spilling a few more tears and then keeping silent for a while. Now he was ashamed of himself, but some part of him was unspeakably grateful that Till was with him – if naught else, it was nice to know that somebody was still there, willing to listen.

"I'm sorry for this," he finally sighed, harshly rubbing his face to get rid of the remains of that embarrassing moisture. "I didn't mean to drag you into this mess."

"Oh, c'mon, Paul, it wasn't your fault." Till's hand disappeared off his back, taking a bit of warmth away. "We're all in this mess together. I was sure he'd told you."

Paul shook his head with a sad snort. "You see, I'm not even worth being told anymore."

"Look, you need to take your mind off this. Why don't we take off to somewhere where there's good company and good beer?"

"Till, look at me." Paul finally dared to take a quick glance at the singer. "I'll be the mood-killer, you don't need that. Ask Schneider, or Olli or Flake, anyone."

"I'll ask them, but you'll go as well. C'mon, I'm not leaving you sulking here all alone until you run into one another again and it ends up with unnecessary bloodshed."

Paul sighed. It was probably the last thing he wanted at the moment – to go out and make an effort pretending he was just fine. But Till knew the truth of it – staying here, locked in his room, wouldn't do him any good either, especially as long as Richard was staying under the same roof.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The misery escalates. Sorry not sorry, it will get better in the end, they'll just have to suffer through it to understand the true value of happiness XD 
> 
> * 'In a Manner of Speaking', originally written by Winston Tong, but, unsurprisingly, I personally prefer the cover made by Mr Martin Gore.


	4. Chapter 4

_Run in to the shadows where we hide  
Bodies tender as our worlds collide  
And nothing is sacred and everything’s wrong  
But you and I keep holding on  
  
Angels on fire  
They fall from the sky  
Heaven and hell will be burning tonight  
Covered in ashes I cry out your name  
And out of the flames  
We will rise again.*(c)_  
  
  
 **1999, the Baltic Sea.**  
  
To Paul's surprise, the night out turned out to be better than he could have hoped it would be. He wasn't in the mood for drinking much – he wasn't in the mood for _anything_ , come to think of it – but he had some to help him relax and loosen his tongue a little. Till had always been a good listener and a good friend, so it was a relief to be able to confide in someone at last. Paul didn't tell him much, and Till didn't really have any advice to give, but the mere opportunity to unburden his heart was already a great relief.

The bitter thoughts seized him again when he finally crawled into bed way past midnight, though. Paul just laid there, motionless, listening to the muffled sounds of the night and the distant whispering of the waves, wishing more than anything that he could simply pass out. Instead, he kept wondering how ridiculous it was that now he hated the man with just as much passion he once had thought he loved him. Just the thought of his bandmate was giving Paul a bitter sensation of disgust, as if he could taste all the vile lies Richard had crammed down his throat.

Because they couldn't have been anything but lies, could they? Love was obviously out of question since they couldn't even be in the same room. Probably, they should have talked it through – just quietly sitting down and resolving any issues, like they used to, long ago. But somehow, they never dared anymore. Richard just kept being a pain in the ass, and Paul had found his own ways of dealing with it – he simply shut him off. Or shut himself off – it didn't really matter how you put it. What did matter was that alongside the wall of complete misunderstanding, another one was rising – the cold barrier of silence and contempt.

Paul restlessly rolled onto his back – it seemed he was too mentally exhausted to fall asleep. He hadn't really done much of anything all day, but that meltdown with Richard had somehow left him completely drained. Adding insult to injury, nothing had been resolved – they still had an album to record, which was also going pretty wretchedly at the moment – and right now, at the darkest hour of the night, it seemed to Paul they'd never manage to finish it at all. He didn't want to think about it, though. He was beginning to feel so numb inside he didn't really give a rat's ass. That wasn't a bad thing, however – the number he became, the higher the chances were that he would survive this hell.

Finally, but not without certain difficulty, he was almost on the brink of blissful oblivion when he, once again, was abruptly wide awake. The troublemaker was smelling like Richard – that signature bitter mixture of cigarettes, aftershave and whiskey, just as bitter as their relationship had become. However, contrary to Paul's initial drowsy thought that the next thing he would feel would be a pillow pressed against his face, it was Richard's lips, softly brushing along his jaw. Too softly to be true, Paul incoherently reflected while trying to wake up. Yet, a few seconds passed and, against all odds, those lying lips were still there.

Paul let out an annoyed sigh, trying to dodge Richard's mouth. His head was heavy, he was miserable, a bit drunk and completely exhausted – as if that wasn't enough for one mortal human being already. Was it necessary for the Universe to torture him even more? Otherwise, why would Richard come here in the dead of night, if not to haunt him?

"Paul…"

His lips continued with annoying persistence to caress Paul's cheek. They hadn't been this close for months now, Paul thought half-bitterly, half-groggily, as he screwed up his eyes in an attempt to smother any feelings this closeness might awake.

"Leave me alone."

He turned his head again, propping up his hands, still a bit uncoordinated from sleep, onto his bandmate's shoulders in a feeble attempt to push him away.

"Listen to me."

Richard's voice sounded just as miserable as Paul felt, yet it failed to evoke in him anything even remotely resembling sympathy.

"Get out--"

"I came to apologise--"

"Fuck off."

"Paul, hear me out."

Richard was slurring some words but obviously he wasn't that drunk either. Paul cursed under his breath, loathing the whole wide world for being so cruel to him – he did not want another brawl, he did not want to hear any useless apologies, and he did not want Richard – not only in his bed, but anywhere in the proximity as well. He was so tired and dismayed that he felt like throwing a fit and kicking his once-lover off the bed, but that was most likely to result in a proper melee rather than a mere row, and that, in turn, would be too much for one fucking day. All Paul wished was to be left alone, was it too fucking much to ask?

"Damn you, Richard, get out!" he hissed, pushing him away a little more determinately.

"Just say that you forgive me."

Richard's voice was so quiet, and his words were so softly spoken, and the touch of his lips was so oddly delicate that, for a heartbeat, it almost took Paul back to the days when everything had been perfect. But it sure as hell wasn't perfect now. They were far from being fine. Did Richard think that a few empty words could solve all their problems? Did he think Paul was willing to crawl back into his arms at first call? Oh no, not now, thank you very much.

"I said, shove off!"

He was getting pissed off again, and it was pretty obvious to him where this was headed. But this time it would be pinned on Richard, thank heaven for small mercies – Paul hadn't done any barging into other people's bedrooms to bother them, after all.

"Paul, please--"

"For fuck's sake, Richard, get out of here!" Paul raised his voice, the darkness and tranquillity of the sleeping house making it sound as loud as a shout. "Let me fucking sleep! Go find someone else to pester if you've got such an urge!"

Now he was ready for an angry outburst in response, but to his surprise, he got none of that. Richard just sighed, nodded and, with a bitter huff, moved away, sliding down onto the floor. He didn't go anywhere, though, and leaned his back against the bed.

"I'm not leaving."

That should have probably sounded threatening, coming from him of all people, but to Paul's even greater surprise and confusion, it didn't. Richard's voice was nothing but listlessly tired.

"Just perfect! Do whatever the fuck you want to," Paul spat, rolling onto his side so that he wouldn't have to face his bandmate anymore. It was well and good if Richard wished to flatten his round butt by spending the night sitting on the floor, as long as he didn't bother him anymore. And Paul would just do his best to ignore the fact that even the sound of Richard's breathing was getting on his nerves.

He closed his eyes again, but the blessed drowsiness was gone without a trace. Instead, his anger and frustration were back, making him wonder, all over again, what the hell had gone wrong. How had they come to this? How could love turn into war this quickly? And as to the more relevant question – what had made Richard come here in the middle of the night with his stupid apologies? Paul couldn't find answers to any of these questions, and that was making him feel even more annoyed. Richard's occasional soft sighs from beside the bed did nothing to assist him in falling asleep either.

It wasn't fucking fair at all. Why did he have to put up with this bullshit? All he had wanted was some sleep to forget it all but he wasn't allowed even that much! Knowing Richard's stubbornness, the only way to get him out of the room would be to physically throw him out, and Paul was just way too tired for that. What was worse, his presence here was making a painful lump form in his throat again, and Paul had to sink his teeth into his lip in silent indignation. Fucking hell!

He rolled over to shoot a glance in Richard's direction, who was still sitting on the floor, facing the dark rectangle of the window, and clearly not asleep either. Paul studied his dark silhouette for a while longer, then sighed and, driven by some foolish force unknown to him, stretched out his arm until his fingers just barely brushed Richard's shoulder. He didn't know why he'd done it – he still didn't have the slightest wish to talk. He didn't need any kind of explanations either – at least this kind of them, whispered in the darkness of the night in between those sinful kisses. Maybe the sole reason was that he just wanted to trick himself into the temporary feeling of normality.

Richard quivered, looking at him over his shoulder, and Paul timidly tugged at the sleeve of his t-shirt. Richard apparently didn't feel like talking anymore, either, so not uttering a single word, he got up from the floor and climbed in bed next to him. Paul didn't even have the time to think about what he was doing when his arms already were wrapped around Richard – one holding him around the neck, the other sneaking under the hem of his t-shirt, to the pleasant heat of his skin. He shut his eyes tightly, compliantly letting his partner slip his tongue into his mouth, the feeling being so exciting and so long unfelt that he couldn't hold back an anxious gasp. How long had it been since the last time Richard had done that? He hadn't realised he'd been missing it so much, along with the sensation of how those white teeth carefully nibbled at his lower lip, and how that nimble warm tongue brushed over it, and how those slightly coarse hands possessively squeezed his thighs. That became the point of no return – Paul just couldn't muster enough strength to resist this intoxicating closeness.

In no time, he was so horribly aroused that he could think of nothing else but the heat which was accumulating down there between his legs. It was sending pleasant tendrils of fire through his entire body, making him squirm and twist against Richard, in an attempt to intensify that wonderful friction between their stiffening cocks. Richard was in no better state – his breathing was ragged, his kisses erratically landing everywhere, his fingers literally clawing at Paul's flesh.

"I'm so… fuck, Paul."

Richard's voice was hoarse and his breath hot on Paul’s face, and it was making his head spin and his cock grow rock hard. Hearing his own name uttered in that husky, aroused voice was almost beyond bearable, especially after all those months when he hadn't had the chance to even come close to Richard, except when he wanted to spit another insult right into his face. God in heaven, was he horny!

"Fuck me," Richard wheezed in between their harsh kisses, as if having read his thoughts, while clumsily trying to pull off his underwear. "Now, Paul. Please."

Paul didn't need to be asked twice – he wanted nothing else, and he couldn't stop if he'd wanted to. Now it was too late for that. His longing, his hurt feelings, his unvoiced complaints, his desire mixed into one irresistible feeling, making him growl his consent into Richard's open mouth. The long period of abstinence fuelled his passion even more, intensifying every single touch to the point of unbearable. As their kisses grew angrier and hungrier, stripped of everything but lust in its purest form, Paul suddenly wanted to howl.

To his great relief, he found a tube of lubricant along with a condom, hidden in the pocket of Richard's pants. What a bastard, Paul absently mused, being glad that there was no need to waste time on looking for any of those now when he was feeling so frenzied. He didn't bother with any kind of foreplay for the same reason. A quiet half-sob, which Richard didn't manage to stifle, reached Paul's ears the moment he shoved his slick flesh in between his buttocks. Through the darkness, he could also see the man cringe as his muscles stiffened underneath his palms, but that wasn't enough to stop him either. Paul didn't ask whether he was alright, like he'd always done before – now he could barely care. He kept on building his pace instead, watching how the features of his partner's face turned into a distorted grimace of either pleasure or pain or the mixture of the two and feeling how his nails sank into the flesh of his upper arms.

He was scarcely aware of who he was, but he made himself be conscious enough so that he could enjoy Richard's agony. That wasn't caused purely by discomfort, though, Paul knew it very well. Sometimes, pleasure was the best kind of torment, and he was shamelessly using it right now. The position they were in allowed Paul to literally hammer on his partner's prostate, and that treatment had always been too much for Richard to bear – he preferred a much gentler touch in that area. Now, however, Paul was too cross to give it to him the way he wanted. He was getting high on just the sight of Richard thrashing underneath him, gasping so violently as if his every thrust was knocking the wind out of him and squirming across the mattress in a vain attempt to change the position at least a little bit.

There wasn't much love in what they were doing, but there were plenty of other feelings. It was full of the lust they'd always had for each other, the pure sexual carnality, and hatred, even vengeance. It was more akin to a battle than to lovemaking, the desperately creaking bed becoming the battlefield, the sweat covering their twisted bodies running as if from battle wounds. It was full of teeth, bites, pinches and scratches, hair-pulling and snarled obscenities.

Every single limb of Paul's body was trembling and threatening to betray him while he was urging Richard to roll over so that they could continue in a truly animalistic fashion. He then kept on shoving his throbbing dick into his lover's tight, hot body, frenzied out of his mind by all the mixed feelings and leaving hickeys and bite marks wherever he could reach. He was still giving Richard the best kind of hell, if his delirious, quivering moans, which he was trying to muffle into the bed surface the best he could, were something to judge by.

By the end of this insanity Paul was lying almost flat on top of his lover, with his arms wrapped around his chest and his movements being more convulsions than anything else. He let himself groan when he came, not giving a damn if anyone next door could hear them, not caring if his teeth left yet another bruise on Richard's shoulder, not aware of how his hand squeezed Richard's cock, making the latter produce a totally uncharacteristic, high-pitched whine and writhe beneath him even more frantically.

The wonderful frenzy had an abrupt end, though, to Paul's genuine dismay. He came to his senses, sprawled half on top of Richard, with his cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. He was indeed feeling as if he'd just lived through a battle, but the end of the war was still nowhere near. Paul could literally smell it in the stuffy air of the bedroom, reeking of sex and sweat. He made attempt to hug Richard, however, more out of habit than because he really cared, and was surprised to feel his partner's moist, warm hand squeezing his arm in response.

"She's gonna bite my head off for all those marks," Richard suddenly said, his husky voice hinting of dark, resigned amusement.

Paul sighed. He knew very well to whom Richard was referring, and a part of him did feel guilty for all those bruises he'd left on his skin, and the interrogation his wife-to-be was, with all right, going to give him. Most of him, however, was too offended to regret anything.

"I should've told you about the wedding first thing…" Richard turned his head, as if to try to throw him a glance. He didn't, though, looking somewhere past Paul into the darkness.

"No, you did absolutely right," Paul quietly said, and that made Richard finally give him a puzzled look. He let out a sad huff, pressing his forehead against his partner's damp back. "You told somebody you trusted. Why should you apologise that it wasn't me?"

Richard turned away abruptly, and Paul could distinctly feel his relaxed muscles tensing up again. He had no idea why he'd said that – Richard was obviously trying to make up with him, in his own crooked way – but he was still feeling too hurt. He simply couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Will you come?"

Richard's voice sounded hopeful nonetheless, and that was something Paul hadn't heard for quite a while, and sure hadn't expected to hear now. Still, even that wasn't enough.

"I'll spend time with my family, Richard. I haven't seen my son for weeks, not gonna waste the opportunity."

The silence which followed once the last syllable of Paul's words had rung out seemed so tense that it was almost palpable, pressing down heavily on his shoulders. Richard kept silent, and the hold of his hand on Paul's arm got weaker until it finally slid off completely. Without uttering a single word, Richard got off the bed, his body pale and beautiful in the mild light of the crescent moon, not bright enough to reveal all the marks Paul had left on his skin. Just as silently, he pulled on his sweatpants, picked up his t-shirt and underwear and left, closing the door surprisingly quietly behind himself.

Paul still could hear his muted footsteps, heading away until the silence swallowed them up completely, leaving him there all alone with his turmoil of thoughts.

"Fuck…" he softly cursed, burying his face into the pillow. It had Richard's smell still lingering on it, and angrily, he tossed it away. It landed on the floor with a quiet thud. " _Fuck_."

He had managed to get back at Richard, but why didn't it seem to bring him any relief at all? Paul still didn't want to talk to him, or see him, and he was still hurting, so why did he even care? He wished he didn't, but the pain which started throbbing somewhere deep inside of him was proving him wrong.

He _did_ fucking care, and he'd just fucked it all up – literally – while what he should have done instead was to try and fix it. He hated Richard. And those stupid quarrels. And his stupid ego.

And, all of a sudden, Paul hated himself just as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'We Weill Rise Again' by Scorpions


	5. Chapter 5

_Gave more for you_ _  
Dropped my crutches  
And crawled on the floor for you  
Went looking behind every door for you  
And because of the things  
That I saw for you  
I spiritually grew_

_When I come up_ _  
When I rush  
I rush for you_ _.*(c)_

**_2003, New York._ **   
  
_The relentless, monotonous drum roll against the window makes Richard want to spend the day on the couch in the living room, staring at the big flat screen all day long. With his phone turned off, with all the world shut out but that tranquillising hum coming from outside. It would be even better if he could feel the warmth of another human being somewhere close. The fact that in a while, there's really going to be another human being in this solitary apartment makes Richard's body weirdly tingle._

_He hasn't stayed all alone with Paul in one place for long since that impromptu holiday in the hills of Virginia. Of course, almost two months spent together while touring the States followed, but a tour was a tour, after all, which meant that their schedule was tight and privacy was out of question most of the time. And then, something elusively changed and nothing was the same again._

_It's hard to believe that four years have passed – it seems it was just recently, as if the sequence of never-ending fights and quarrels which followed never really happened. Richard would gladly tear that ugly page out of their story, but he knows that would never make it truly disappear. It just exists, in his memory and in Paul's too. It doesn't even give him the slightest hope that this time they could possibly forget about its existence and start all over again. But he's not altogether honest in his reasoning, however – there's something which might give them a second chance, he's just too scared to admit it. At this very moment, Paul is on his way to New York, coming here by his own accord. Richard has anxiously been wrecking his brains in search for the right words since he learned he was coming. The words that should have been said so long ago, but never were. If he manages to find the right ones, it may still mean that not all has been lost. But he is becoming really fed up that the only words that keep repeating in his head like a broken record are the ones which should never have been said at all._

**1999-2000, somewhere in the space-time continuum.**

Richard was so mad at Paul for not turning up at his wedding, and with Till for tattling, in the first place, and with all the rest as well that he, in spite, never returned to the house on the shore of the Baltic Sea.

Instead, he preferred to enjoy his honeymoon in the New World.

As to all the work still to be done – it could be done via the Internet, thank heaven for the technological progress. It wasn't particularly convenient, but at least it spared him the necessity to talk to Paul, or see Paul, or endure all his bullshit. It didn't help him to stop thinking about Paul, though – he was constantly there, at the back of his mind, like little obsessive _idée fixe_ , never leaving him in peace. The most painful thing about it all was that once Richard had really believed that Paul was the very person he could rely on, whatever happened. His ally, his friend, his brother, his soulmate.

It turned out that destiny had quite a different scenario prepared for them. Their first meeting after the summer break had indeed been somewhat awkward, and ever since that instance, Paul had begun drifting away, refusing to listen to him, refusing to talk to him, refusing to even make the smallest attempt to understand him. Richard also felt that they _might_ have gone a bit too far, but hey, couldn't they just forget what they had said and pretend as if nothing had happened? What he quite frankly could not comprehend was why it was so necessary for Paul to just destroy everything they had once had. He'd started to feel shunned, more with every single day they had to stay together, and the wedding incident simply became the last straw.

He knew he wasn't fair by not letting Paul know about it in advance, and that the man had the right to be cross with him, well and good, but for fuck's sake, how many times should he have said sorry? He'd repeated over and over again, but what good did it do in the end? Just more cold shoulders and alienation, and Richard just couldn't tolerate that any longer. His patience had its limits, and his pride was already wounded enough.

Those teeth marks and bruises Paul had given him didn't exactly make matters any easier – and it was blatantly obvious what they were, too. Richard wasted a couple of tubes of some well-promoted and insanely expensive gel to help them heal faster, but the pale, yellowish traces refused to vanish completely from his skin nonetheless. In the end, he had no other choice but come to his wife-to-be with repentance, making up a story of his drunken stag-party, which did nothing in terms of soothing his wounded ego, and made him despise Paul even more passionately.

Richard's fiancée was furious, as she had every right to be. Obviously, he couldn't defend himself by claiming that he and Paul had once decided that shagging each other didn't even count as cheating. _'Don't you worry, honey, all he did was fuck my lights out, but that's okay, it's just sex, y'know, no feelings attached to it. And he isn't even my best buddy anymore.'_ Somehow, Richard suspected that such excuse would end his marriage even before it had the chance to really start. So he silently endured all the accusations, threats and tears. He did feel sorry for her and he also felt sorry for himself. He just couldn't comprehend why on Earth he had to be put through all this hell by the man he had dearly loved, or at least he had once _thought_ he loved.

Paul indeed took off home, just as he had promised. He did call to congratulate him, after all, but the tone of his voice was so disgustingly formal and dry that it managed to poison Richard's _almost_ happy mood in a matter of seconds. Oh, how he wished he could tell him to fuck off and leave him alone, exactly how Paul himself had repeatedly answered to Richard's apologies. It cost him much effort to guard his tongue and not to make matters worse.

They didn't see each other for almost half a year after that. What was more, they never talked, neither on the phone nor via the global web. Any communication which was absolutely necessary was conducted through a third party. That seemed childishly stupid, but Richard simply couldn't make himself face Paul again. He also didn't wish to think about what would happen once their goddamn record was finally finished, that was, if it would ever be finished at all considering all the controversies they had. His telecommuting didn't do much to help the situation, but Richard discovered he was ready to suffer through anything to avoid Paul. He just knew he couldn't bear with him and his cold attitude anymore, as if there was a fucking iceberg hidden underneath his fake smile.

However, when recording couldn't be postponed any longer, thus leaving them no chance of avoiding each other, their meeting turned out better than he could have possibly expected. If naught else, the six months since their last fight had somewhat dulled his anger and indignation, and he decided that acting like he didn't care was the way to go. Paul had chosen this approach long ago, so why couldn't he do the same?

That said, when they were scheduled to give a small, private gig in one of the Berlin nightclubs, Richard wasn't particularly fascinated with the prospects of having to tolerate Paul for so long, and in such a confined space, all the same. He did realise that they had no right to fuck things up, though – the two of them had already done a helluva lot of fucking up – so in order to relax and lift up his spirits, and not to worsen the situation even more, Richard got as drunk as it was humanly possible without it interfering with his playing. That did help, taking some strain off and letting him enjoy what he was doing as much as he could in the current circumstances, even if it meant that he was pretty much out of it most of the time.

Surprisingly, the show went quite well – with a few minor incidents, of course, but that was how things always worked after a break – and soon, the after-party was in full swing. It was also going pretty smoothly – everyone was obviously having fun, but it was so hot and stuffy inside that it made Richard, drunk as he was, crave a breath of fresh air. So he found his way, almost solely by touch, through the dark corridors leading up to the back door, where the humid, warm spring air took him into its soft embrace, like a good old friend. It had been raining – there were plenty of shallow little puddles everywhere, with glimpses of light from the few dim lamps reflecting in their surface – and, judging by the humidity, it was going to rain again. Richard didn't mind – the moisture felt fresh and cool on his flushed cheeks, and it even managed to sober him up a little.

He took his time outside, savouring the bitter taste of tobacco and smiling to himself a faint, content smile. There had been no signs of the possible approach of another disaster, so Richard dared to assume that maybe the situation wasn't all that grave anymore. Maybe there even was the chance that they'd get through this shit-storm. In a much better mood, he finally tossed the stump of his cigarette into the nearest drain, took another lungful of the humid night air and headed back into the club, musing about whether he should find some date for the oncoming night – the spring scent had managed to stir up a nice excitement inside of him, and, luckily, there were a few ladies he wouldn't mind to get to know a little better.

The narrow corridor to the bathrooms was almost pitch-black, lit up only by a poor excuse for a light bulb above the back door, so it wasn't Richard's fault when he accidentally stumbled into someone on his way back. The someone emitted an elaborated curse, and it didn't take Richard long to realise who the voice belonged to. He froze mid-step, barely aware of how his hands tightened their clench on Paul's sweatshirt, pulling him a little closer instead of letting him go and mind his own business, whatever it was.

Richard could only just distinguish the shape of his bandmate's face, and all of a sudden, the surroundings seemed weirdly safe to him, as if this darkness was promising to hide everything which could happen here under its protective black veil. The arousing scents of the oncoming spring were still circulating through Richard's bloodstream, along with lots of alcohol and post-show adrenaline, and the sound of Paul's voice, for once addressing no one else but him, made him feel light and dizzy. The warmth of his breath on his face sent enough fog into Richard's drunken brain to make him completely forget himself.

Heaven have mercy, how he wanted Paul. Right here. Right now.

The next thing he knew, he had Paul trapped between himself and the wall vibrating with heavy bass rhythms, vigorously pressing his lips to the tempting ones he knew so well, the ones which could fake a smile so skilfully. Richard was determined to wipe that grin off Paul's face, at least for the time being. He didn't give a fuck that they were in a public place, that they were members of a world-famous band, that there could be someone just nearby, with a camera in the worst case. He just wanted Paul.

To Richard's surprise, Paul didn't put up a fight – instead he willingly opened his mouth for him, while mumbling something which didn't make any sense anyway. His hands slipped further down, grabbing Paul by the hips and pulling him so close he could feel their hipbones touch. Now, Richard could not hold back a desperate, yet soft, moan. He felt desired, wanted, like he never thought he would ever experience again, not after what they had been through. But he was, and that in itself was more intoxicating than all the booze he had downed this evening.

A few moments of closeness were all it took for Richard to realise the hopelessness of the situation. When he broke away from Paul's moist mouth, he knew that resistance was useless. The lesser evil was just to give in to this sudden desire.

Which he did without a second thought. Fumbling along the wall, Richard found the door of the nearest bathroom and nearly sent them both careening into the characteristically stinking darkness. He had no idea how he'd managed to do it so quickly but in almost no time he was kneeling in front of Paul, assaulting the fly of his jeans with his trembling, sweaty hands. Cursing when it refused to give in, swearing with his mouth pressed against the rough fabric and enjoying the enticing warmth of the hardening flesh just beneath his lips. The shudder which shook the body of his long-time obsession felt better than anything Richard had experienced in months.

Holy fuck, he couldn't even have begun to imagine just how much he'd been missing this velvety touch of the smooth skin on his lips all that time. How he'd craved for those skilled, strong fingers to curl into his hair, gripping it tight. How he'd yearned that bitter taste at the back of his throat, which right now seemed better than anything he'd ever tasted. Somehow, Richard discovered he was happy beyond belief to, once again, be choking on this perfectly shaped cock which was sliding in between his lips, so he struggled to take more of it, flicking his tongue around its silky tip and sucking in his cheeks like a proper whore.

And, oh yes, he was enjoying it! Enveloped into the welcoming embrace of the darkness and with this wonderful warmth that was now filling his mouth, he was listening to the stream of beautiful, strangled gasps, suppressed, soft moans and slurred, marvellously vulgar words. It suited him perfectly – he needed all the obscenities he could get to justify what he was doing.

His jeans had become uncomfortably tight, but Richard didn't pay that discomfort much attention – it was probably the only thing which was still keeping him in his right mind. He didn't want to lose all touch with reality. Not yet. Not now, when he was a part of Paul, allowed to take pleasure in being so close again. Finally, Richard didn't need to fight off his obsessive thoughts. Now, at last, everything – the smell, the taste, the sensations, the voice, the convulsive sobs, the grip of Paul's hands tightening as his orgasm approached – belonged to him, and only him. Finally, there was a bond connecting them again.

The warm spurt of semen that shot into his mouth, almost choking him, in Richard's frenzied condition seemed to taste sweeter than honey, so he lapped out his tongue, trying to catch every single droplet. Some of it was slipping down his chin, mixing with his own viscous saliva, the rest of it slid down his throat, while he coughed and gasped for breath. He wasn't given the chance to regain it, though, because almost immediately, his mouth was shut by a kiss so vigorous it took his breath away all over again.

Paul's lips were leaving moist trails all over the slippery mess covering the lower part of his face, almost aggressively at that, and if Richard had managed to keep at least some shard of consciousness up until this moment, it was all lost now, and he was falling, and falling, and falling.

Falling down until he found himself flat out on the cold tile floor, the temperature difference between it and his heated skin sending almost convulsive shivers through his body. Or was it Paul's mouth, which continued to torture him even when Richard was already lying flat on his back, completely defeated?

Paul's warm, wonderfully firm, hand found his neglected cock, knowingly stroking, squeezing and touching him with such precision that it instantly turned him into a limp, moaning sack of flesh and bone. Richard had to press his hand against his mouth in order to muffle the groan that was about to escape his lips while he was writhing underneath Paul's weight, pinned down to the dirty floor in the grimy bathroom of some godforsaken nightclub, and feeling absolutely, unforgivably, inhumanly happy.

The bliss was denied him at the last possible moment, though, leaving Richard on the verge of exploding. He growled in dismay as the weight of Paul's body was gone along with the grip of his hand on his throbbing cock. For fuck's sake, now what?! Why did Paul always have to be so fucking cruel? Did he want him to beg and plead? Could he hate him so much as to humiliate him this way?

"Paul, damn you!" he wheezed as soon as he'd recovered his breath, but since no one answered, Richard pried his eyes open, all in vain, of course – it was still pitch black inside the room.

"Paul, please."

This time he did beg because he was so horribly turned on it was physically hurting him. And he was past caring now as well. Did Paul want him to crawl on his knees for him? He would.

"You'll come back for more." Paul's voice hissed right into Richard's ear, making him involuntarily cringe. It wasn't a question, it wasn't an offer – it was a statement. Cold and arrogant, saturated with spite and contempt.

And then Paul was gone, just like that – in the blink of an eye, Richard could see the shape of his slender silhouette in the doorway, and then there was nothing but darkness surrounding him again. This was so mean it almost managed to sober him up – only moments ago it was passion and fire, and now Richard was left on this battlefield all alone, defeated and wounded, covered in ashes which were already growing cold.

But by god, it felt so damn good to hurt like this.

And so he laughed, first quietly, covering his face just like he'd been doing not long ago, and muffling his soft chuckles, which soon evolved into almost hysterical laughter against his palms as he stared into the darkness that kept drawing bright, fanciful patterns in front his open eyes.

Oh yes, he _would_ come back for more. And he would have his own way next time.

The chance didn't easily present itself – when Richard finally left the bathroom, with his hands shaking, head pounding and all thoughts of finding a lover for the night gone without a trace, Paul was nowhere to be seen, and as it turned out, they didn't get the opportunity to see each other alone for days to come. By then, Richard had to return to the States again, but he never let himself forget how genuinely he had both loathed and yearned Paul the moment the bathroom door had closed behind him, leaving him to be devoured by the darkness and unfulfilled desire. And he'd hated him even more the following day, having to watch his utterly indifferent expression, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the night before. Those visions sometimes haunted Richard while he was in bed with his wife, and he had to bite his lips hard to make them disappear, otherwise he was afraid he might do something he would later regret bitterly.

They couldn't put off finishing the recording forever, though, so eventually they did get together again, assembling in a villa amongst picturesque, and this time, French hills. Paul continued to talk to him in a dry, exaggeratedly polite manner, avoiding him as much as possible. Richard didn't mind – he had no wish to talk to him either, or even see him for that matter. Besides, he knew where his bedroom was located, and that was just enough for him because the only feeling he had left for Paul was desire. And since he could do nothing about it, Richard assumed he could just go ahead and quench that thirst, especially since his once so good friend didn't seem to have anything against it, judging by what he'd said back there in the darkness in the filthy facilities of the stuffy nightclub.

So a few days after they had all settled in, Richard finally dared to set off on a venture through the sleeping house towards Paul's bedroom with all the necessary paraphernalia stuffed into the pocket of his sweatpants, willing to accept the invitation and determined to have his way with him at last. A faint smile twisted his lips as he suddenly realised that the last time he'd done some midnight stalking, he was coming to Paul with apologies. How ironical was it that this time all he had for him was vengeance? Richard didn't have any particular plan of revenge – there really wasn't any need for it. What he did need was to get the fire which had once been burning both of them alive kindled again. It was the only warm thing left between the two of them, and Richard felt drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

He found Paul fast asleep in his bed, but that wasn't a problem. It was even better this way, because while sleepy, there was a lesser chance that he'd put up a fight. Not that Richard thought it was likely – after all, Paul himself had told him to come back for more. So here he was, just heeding his advice, like a good old friend.

It didn't take him long to wake up his bandmate – a few soft kisses on his slightly parted lips and several gentle squeezes in the region of his crotch – and Paul was plunging his tongue into his mouth so vigorously as if he hadn't been asleep at all. This was good. This was that very fire Richard was craving for – pure, concentrated lust, without any unnecessary words, promises or bonds. He missed the weight of Paul's arms around him, and the tighter the embrace became, the brighter the flame inside of him flared. It was devouring his past offenses, his common sense, his hatred, destroying everything but the desire to get closer and, for at least a short while, become one again.

Paul did nothing to resist him, stoically enduring the first few thrusts with his teeth clenched and eyes shut tightly. Richard could see his face through the gloom of the night, pale and handsome in this insufficient illumination. There was some weariness about it as well, but Richard had noticed that all of them had looked that way lately. And when Paul finally opened his eyes, staring straight at him, they were deep and dark, and Richard could swear he could see the reflections of his own fire in them. He didn't need anything else – that was more than enough already.

The chance to let go of everything they had been through and to get lost in each other was sheer bliss, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Richard wondered why it hadn't come to this long ago. They had been fighting this cold war for almost a whole year, alright, but as long as the lights were turned off, they didn't even have to see each other's faces. Wasn't it a blessing? Wasn't it the only way they had left to stay together?

Richard found himself clinging to the shreds of those thoughts as the only means to keep himself relatively distracted from the pleasure that was building up inside of him, as inevitably as a tidal wave. Paul was in a much more critical condition, judging by all those little signs Richard had come to know a long time ago. His fingers were clawing at his upper arms, his head thrown back against the pillow, his mouth hanging open as he gasped for air, with a thin sheen of perspiration glistening on his brow and his chest, and his dick was so hard and swollen it seemed it was on the verge of exploding at any moment. He knew Paul was feeling good and he was so awfully close that a slightly more direct touch against his prostate, or one little stroke over the leaking tip of his flesh, and this blissful truce would be over all too soon.

However, Richard still hadn't abandoned all thoughts of revenge. It must have been the only thing which still prevented him from succumbing to the pleasure and falling into the void of obliviousness together with his partner. No, he couldn't let that happen right now, because he owed Paul something.

Richard let himself slip out of Paul, the action seeming to deprive the latter of the last remains of air in his lungs, as he gasped in obvious frustration. His obvious frustration was oh so familiar to Richard that it filled him with a vindictive kind of joy, just by imagining how helplessly desperate the man beneath him must be feeling.

"You..." Paul panted, fixing his hazy gaze on his face.

Richard scowled.

"Payback time," he whispered, leaning a little closer to Paul's face. Paul didn't look away, and a slightly more sensible expression appeared in his eyes. "By all rights, I should just leave you here like this, to sort out your little problem on your own. How would you like that, friend?"

"Son of a bitch."

"Unlike you, I'm not," Richard jeered. "I'm merciful, Paul."

He roughly shoved his flesh back inside of his partner, making the latter cringe and let out a quivering, high-pitched whine. This short break somehow let Richard come back to his senses and he found out he wasn't on the verge of collapsing on top of Paul anymore. Instead, he continued torturing him to his heart's content with his constantly changing pace, not letting the pleasure build up enough for him to come.

"Hate you," Paul hissed when Richard withdrew once again, giving him a suffering, exhausted glance.

"Relax, mate, I'm just kidding," Richard sneered in reply with gloating delight.

He kept on for as long as he could, either stopping all movement or speeding up. Or rather, it lasted for as long as Paul could endure because to Richard's own surprise, he found out he was ready to spend quite a while longer doing just that, giving his partner the sweetest hell until he was almost out of his senses, sweaty, shivering and not even able to moan loudly. Richard did stop once for Paul's sake, though, when the latter mumbled something about getting too dry, and carefully applied more lubricant, just to then continue fucking him into oblivion with doubled enthusiasm. Paul's hand weakly gripped around his own cock, but Richard slapped it away, squeezing the throbbing, hot flesh with his own fingers instead – that was how he liked it, being able to control even how intense his partner's orgasm was going to be.

A surprisingly soft, strangled sob escaped Paul's mouth as his semen sprinkled onto his sweaty stomach, his muscles clenching around Richard so tightly that he preferred to withdraw before those wonderful convulsions made him come as well. No, he had more in store for his dear old friend tonight, he thought while holding Paul and letting Paul hold on to him as fiercely as if he was surely going to die.

Once his partner had more or less regained his breathing ability, Richard pulled off the condom, tossed it onto the floor beside the bed, and straddled his chest, letting the tip of his erection brush against his mouth. Paul got the idea pretty quickly, resignedly parting his lips and letting him push half of his penis inside in the best tradition of porn movies. This was just as wonderfully moist and hot, and the sight of Paul's damp cheeks, covered with a day's stubble, puffing as he sucked at his swollen cock was even more difficult to bear. Well, Richard didn't need to put it off anymore – he'd already gotten almost all he wanted – so he finally let himself go and focus on the feeling of Paul's tongue sliding against the underside of his member. Right now, Richard was nothing short of grateful that they had studied each other so well – it didn't take his bandmate long to let the fire which had been devouring him finally break free, sending him into a fit of heavenly shivers.

All Richard wanted now was to collapse, but he made an attempt to compose himself. Instead of giving in to this divine languor, Richard carefully let his semen fill his partner's mouth so that not a drop would be wasted.

"Swallow," he wheezed, pressing his thumb across Paul's moist, swollen lips.

Paul did exactly that, cringing and apparently doing the best he could not to choke on it, while Richard gently brushed his fingertips over the light stubble on his cheeks. Paul never broke their eye contact although his intense stare remained as inscrutable as ever. Richard couldn't say for sure if he was enjoying this or if he loathed him with all his heart for what had just happened.

"You're okay?" he finally asked, wiping a few white droplets off Paul's chin.

"What do you care?" Paul sarcastically arched a brow. There they were again, back to normal.

"I'd have chosen a different way if I'd wanted to physically hurt you, never like this, you know it."

Paul considered it silently, not letting his icy stare drift away.

"Fine," he finally said, swallowing hard. "But don't you fucking eat onions next time, or I'll bite your dick off."

That made Richard smirk in spite of himself – right, okay, that wasn't particularly nice of him.

"Now get the fuck out."

Paul's tone remained poisonous, though, and it managed to wipe that shadow of a smile off Richard's face pretty quickly, reminding him that they really had no reason to smile together. So he did just what he was told to – there was nothing which could make him want to stay there anyway.

Until next time.

**_2003, New York._ **

_As mean as it was, that incident actually did them a good service in terms of helping them finally find some harmless distraction from the hell they had dragged themselves into. Subsequently, they had lots and lots of such 'next times', and it became one of the few things Richard actually misses about those times. If nothing else, they both were somewhat cruelly creative, and that made their occasional encounters ever so much more passionate and memorable. There were many and more, which Richard is still fond of remembering, even now, when there seems to be nothing left for him and Paul to possibly share. He was almost perfectly content with the situation back then, but only now, having put thousands and thousands of miles between the two of them, Richard has realised that what they were actually doing was just drifting even further apart._

_The first rips in the clouds are finally visible in the greyish sky, which means that in a couple of hours, there will be nothing but a few puddles left reminding of this shower, which has been going on for the better part of the morning. It makes Richard wish that drying up all the poisoned lakes of their mutual wrongs was just as easy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'Rush' by Depeche Mode 
> 
> Not done with the misery yet. But there's some porn to brighten the mood.


	6. Chapter 6

_In my other world, there is no pain  
And all my thoughts are clouds of happiness  
  
In my other world, my heart beats red  
There is no gun pointed at my head  
  
And I don't really want your kiss  
My thoughts don't make me cry  
My heart's not filled with grey sadness  
My ears can't hear you lie  
  
And I can't even see your face  
I've never heard your name  
My heart is still, my thoughts are calm  
And light has filled this space  
  
In my other world, my pain is bliss  
I own your soul, I own your kiss.*(c)_

**_2003, somewhere above the US._ **

_Absently bending the corner of the newspaper he's unsuccessfully been trying to read throughout this entire tedious flight, Paul once again questions why he's even on this plane – the more time passes, the more obvious it seems to him that this trip is a mistake. His journey is coming to its end, but he still hasn't come up with what he will say to Richard when they finally see each other after… how long has it been? At least a year, and they haven't talked even once in that time, with the exception of the phone call Paul made a while ago._

_What on Earth can he say to Richard now, after all these silent days and nights? He suddenly has an urge to take his phone, dial Till's number and shout at him for a while for persuading him to agree on this insane venture. Fortunately, though, phones aren't allowed to be switched on on board._

_Instead of finding a way to come to terms with Richard, all Paul has accomplished so far is revive all the bitter moments he'd rather forget… or would he, really? Would it make them happy again if by some miracle they were able to wipe their memories clean? Or have those recollections become an inevitable part him? Has Richard become an inevitable part of him as well?_

_No, they have tried to be civil, and to stay away from each other, and to forget it all, haven't they? Not once, for that matter, but somehow all their attempts always ended up the same old way – with their hot, sweaty bodies clinging to each other, their limbs entangled and the aftermath of their fruitless attempts to make up or break up staining their skin, clothes and bedsheets. It makes Paul wonder if this time, they will just tumble into the same bed and, by default, the same behaviour again. The only thing he thinks he can say for sure is that he doesn't want that anymore – all those dramas and passions have made him nothing but awfully weary._

**2002, Mutter tour.**

To Paul's surprise, they did manage to finish the record, although it was born out of blood, sweat and tears and definitely cost them all a few new wrinkles on their faces and grey hairs on their heads. However, by the time they were done, life had taught them all a few things about human interactions and relationships, helping him and Richard, in particular, to start talking to each other again and sometimes even laugh together, an ability they both thought had been lost forever.

That little fumbling encounter in the pitch darkness in a random bathroom in a seemingly equally random nightclub in Berlin, followed by one more night together, proved just one thing: even if they still couldn't stand each other during the day, the nights could keep that sparkle they'd always had kindling, even if only temporarily. But that was worth it. In the darkness, it kept them warm while they were giving each other hell to pay, basking in what remained of what was once a great fire.

Apart from sex, however, Paul still wanted nothing to do with Richard. He had no desire to face him more often than strictly necessary – and even that sometimes seemed too frequent – he didn't want to talk to him, argue with him, prove something to him, be in the same room or travel on one bus. By the end of that perpetual tour, Paul could hardly wait for it to be over. He had never considered himself to be much of a family man, and sitting idly on his butt had never been one of his favourite pastimes, but at that time, he looked forward to nothing else but finally coming back home and immersing himself into its predictable, safe, peaceful daily routine.

He craved to be away from the constant guitar roars, drum rolls, fireworks and explosions, away from the sweat-soaked stage outfit and crumpled clothes, from the ubiquitous pyro-stench and the change of the landscape outside their tour bus, van, train, plane, all beginning to drive him mad. He wished for peace and quiet, for the chance to be away from this hustle. He just wanted to sink into the monotonous sequence of days and nights, doing nothing but playing with his kids, sleeping and eating.

And most of all, Paul wanted to get away from the people who were surrounding him, to replace those stubborn blockheads with the ones who made an effort to understand him. It was worse than just being alone, he reflected, with aversion tossing the half-empty travel-size tube of toothpaste onto the small shelf above the sink in the bathroom of just another dull hotel room. Soon, Paul thought, soon he'd finally be able to throw away all that travel-size paraphernalia because at home he wouldn't need anything travel-size. He'd bloody buy economy packages and be content.

The whole situation seemed worse because he shouldn't really be feeling lonely at all – he was always surrounded by people. Moreover, he could actually call most of those people his friends – after all, they shared laughs and beers, goals and interests. And he also had Richard, more often than not as of late in his hotel room, sharing his bed.

Still, it wasn't of much help – Paul was fed up with every single one of his colleagues. Flake's caustic remarks – even though, thank heaven for small mercies, he had gone off that nasty habit of casually mocking his and Richard's relationship, which wasn't even a relationship anymore, come to think of it – now only managed to make him produce weary smirks. Besides, Paul was sick and tired of him going on about that he wasn't quite enjoying what they were doing and his ridiculous nostalgia for the past. Till was moody most of the time as of late, especially when something went wrong during the show – which it rather regularly did – and somehow Till's moodiness tended to be contagious, which worsened Paul's general state of dejection. Of all the six of them only Schneider seemed to have preserved a sparkle of liveliness, but that turned out to get on Paul's nerves rather than cheer him up. And he was almost positively sure that the percussionist's constant tapping on various objects was going to give him a tic. Olli was even more reticent than he normally tended to be – perhaps sensing the general mood of this hell on wheels and wishing to withdraw from it before it consumed him, too. Paul had decided to stick close to him, hoping to keep the last shreds of his own common sense. He wasn't quite certain it was helping, though.

As to Richard, the sort of relationship they had eventually sunk into was so weird Paul couldn't even label it. They weren't arguing anymore, at least not as much and as violently as they used to, they could talk and even listen to each other on a particularly good day. However, Paul couldn't really say that what they had now was better than what they'd had before. At least back then, there had been enough fireworks to ignite their passion instantly.

Now, even that tiny relief was almost gone, which only intensified his horrible feeling of loneliness. Even when he and Richard fell asleep together, which they for some unfathomable reason had been doing pretty often, contrary to their policy of bang-and-go, they still remained nothing but strangers. But unlike strangers, they shared so many different memories which, for sure, should have made them feel closer and help build up the necessary trust. But in reality, they did nothing but dragged along, like some heavy load, burdening and oppressive, smothering both of them in the process.

On the last night of the tour, Paul wasn't surprised to find Richard lying stretched out on the bed in his room, lazily zapping through the channels on the TV but barely watching any one of them for more than two seconds. An involuntary sigh froze on Paul's lips when he noticed him. He couldn't say he didn't want to see Richard, but he couldn't say that he wanted to either. More than anything else, he just didn't care, and that was the saddest part of all.

"What time are you leaving tomorrow?" he casually asked, draping his wet towel over the back of one of the heavy wooden chairs.

Richard was heading straight for New York, and Paul was going to make it for Berlin, which meant this night was actually all they had left. He had expected to be at least a little more emotional, relieved if nothing else, but it was becoming obvious that there was nothing left to feel but weary indifference. He genuinely hoped that Richard didn't have it in mind to fuck him senseless tonight. Or the other way around, that didn't really matter. The realisation left a bitter taste at the back of his throat as he, again, wondered how they'd even come to this. Ridiculous as it was, Paul wished they could have another go at each other, yelling curses and spitting insults, and then just fuck to their resentful hearts' content instead of this wretched apathy they'd been living in for months on end.

"A quarter past noon." With a sigh, Richard switched the TV off, finally giving him a listless glance. "You?"

"In the afternoon." Paul tiredly stretched himself out on his stomach alongside his bandmate.

"Then I won't have to be kicked out of here at first light, which is good."

"Are you planning on staying the night?"

Paul cringed inwardly – they sounded as if they were some dormitory roommates, on their last night in the same room, eager to get rid of each other but still feeling a little nostalgic about all they had gone through together. Though, wasn't it exactly what they had become?

"You have some plans?" One of Richard's perfect eyebrows arched inquiringly. "I thought--"

"No." Paul shook his head, giving him a faint, tired smile. He had to interrupt him, before Richard managed to voice exactly what he was thinking – he didn't want to hear it, whatever the hell it was. "Stay, that's fine."

Richard's gaze lingered on his face for a while, making Paul feel strangely uncomfortable. There was something to it, something he couldn't really identify, and he didn't like it. Maybe it was sadness, maybe disappointment, or even both, and Paul had enough of his own disappointments to deal with to have any strength left to care about Richard's.

"Shall I turn off the light then?" Richard finally asked, slightly nodding as if confirming some thought he'd prefer to leave unsaid.

"Would be exceptionally nice of you." Paul suppressed a yawn, burying his face into the pillow.

"See, I'm not always as horrible as you think I am." Richard let out an unamused chuckle and climbed off the bed. "At times I can even be _nice_."

His last remark took Paul aback, and he lifted his head to watch how Richard tiredly padded towards the switch on the wall.

"I..." He opened his mouth but the abrupt change from light to darkness made him trail off mid-sentence.

The next moment Paul felt grateful for that little interruption, otherwise he would have continued and ended up asking Richard why the hell he had come here in the first place if not to start a row – apparently, they'd been living too peacefully as of late. A moment was enough, though, to remind him that, after all, it was their last night together – the last in how long, he had no idea – and it would be incredibly stupid to spend it picking on words and tearing up old wounds. So, despite himself and his indignation, Paul pursed his lips and, with a sigh, slipped under the blanket, turning his back to his bandmate. A part of him still wished for Richard's warmth – most probably just out of habit – but the other wanted him to just leave already, before they turned this night into a disaster. Paul would definitely prefer not having Richard here at all than having him here yelling.

The mattress on the other side of the bed sagged lightly as Richard made himself comfortable, making Paul shudder from the sudden whiff of cool night air reaching him. But in a moment, he was warm once again as Richard's arms securely wrapped around his waist, pulling him a little closer to the heat of his body. He felt a soft sigh being muffled against the nape of his neck, uncertain and sad, just like Richard's glance a few minutes before.

This was definitely not promising anything good.

Oh, for God's sake, not tonight! They didn't need idle, bland chit-chat anymore, not now when it was all finally coming to an end. Paul chewed on his lip, anxiously waiting for Richard to say something. He knew he would, and he didn't have to wait for long.

"D'you think we'll ever get together again?" Richard finally asked, not specifying who exactly he was talking about.

Did he mean the band? Or just the two of them? As far as Paul was concerned, all he could think about was his wonderful big bed in his own house, thousands of miles away from here.

"Do we really need to talk about it right now?" he sighed dejectedly, turning his head so that he could relatively well see his partner's face through the darkness.

Richard gave him another long, emotionless look, so uncharacteristic of him, and then shook his head.

"No," he mumbled softly. "No, you're right. Let's just go to sleep."

"We'll have the entire morning tomorrow to discuss it if you want." Paul nursed a meek hope that Richard didn't want that, though.

"Yeah, sure." This time Richard gave him a light nod. "'Night."

Paul silently nodded in kind, feeling the relief caused by the fact that they had just managed to avoid this conversation acquiring a more bitter aftertaste.

Richard fell asleep pretty soon – Paul could tell it by his even breathing and the heaviness of his limbs. His own sleep persistently eluded him and by some ill luck, Richard's question refused to get out of his head, too, making him wonder, over and over, what the future held for all of them.

The darkest hours in the middle of the night were on Paul's shortlist of least favourite things – if he stayed awake and alone at those times, his thoughts inevitably tended to take him to the gloomiest corners of his soul, showing everything in such a depressive light that he got a desperate urge to get dead drunk.

It was precisely what was happening to him right now. Minutes seemed to drag past so slowly he could literally hear them crawl by in the darkness. He could feel the heat of Richard's body against his own, but it didn't get through to warm his heart. He could feel the arm holding him tight, but he knew there was no passion left in this touch anymore. He had Richard so close but he was feeling as lonely as if he was left on a deserted island somewhere on another planet in an entirely different Universe.

Paul kept lying still, though, until the last grains of hope of falling asleep had completely abandoned him. If he was feeling so wretched right now, then what kind of state would he be in by the morning, having to say goodbye to Richard and pretending everything was just dandy? This was hypocritical, to stay here and delude himself into believing that anything could be fine. Nothing was fine, hadn't been for years, and most probably never would.

Paul suppressed a sigh, getting himself untangled from his bandmate's warm embrace. He had to be careful not to wake Richard up – least of all he needed to be put on the spot right now. Fumbling around in the darkness, he finally found his clothes, grabbed them and sneaked into the bathroom, where he quietly got dressed, sprinkled some water onto his haggard face, and, thanking heaven that he had been so prudent as to pack his bag beforehand, returned into the dark room.

"Paul?" Richard's sleepy voice made him freeze up mid-step beside his suitcase. 

_Oh here we go,_ Paul cursed under his breath, tentatively tip-toeing back towards the bed.

"Shhh, go back to sleep," he mumbled, leaning in so close that his lips almost touched Richard's.

"Morning already?" Richard squinted at him through the darkness, producing a massive yawn.

"No," Paul whispered back, gingerly stroking the gelled spikes of his hair.

Was he going to miss them? he suddenly wondered, cursing himself for such ridiculous thoughts. What did it matter anyway?

"Are you going somewhere?"

Judging by the drowsy intonations, Richard was still more asleep than awake, and that gave Paul more courage.

"No, silly, I'm right here," he lied with a bitter smile on his lips, a moment later letting them softly press to Richard's. Apparently, he couldn't just leave without kissing him goodbye, Paul thought with sadness. "Sleep, Rich."

Richard didn't say anything, and Paul remained sitting on his haunches beside the bed, just in case, until he was sure that his fellow guitarist had passed out once again. Then he sighed, gave Richard one more long, thoughtful glance, sighed again, took his bag and, as quietly as he could, tip-toed out of the room, cautiously shutting the door behind himself. Surely, the seats in the airport terminal, complemented with some strong spirits, couldn't be worse than these fruitless attempts to fall asleep beside Richard. He would rather not sleep at all tonight.

**_2003, New York._ **

_Twelve long months ago, heading for the airport through the deserted night streets, Paul was sure it was the only right decision to make; to leave without a word. Over the past few years, they had never been able to find the right words, so there was obviously no sense in trying to be eloquent right then and there._

_Paul hasn't heard anything from him since that time. They just slipped into silence, pretending that the other one doesn't exist at all. Richard must have taken offense because of how he left him that night, Paul is sure of it. He didn't sound offended while they were talking on the phone just a few days ago, though, but he doesn't dare to trick himself into believing that Richard has miraculously forgotten and forgiven him everything. No, there have been too many disagreements, accusations and bitter words to let it all remain in the past. So now, as the plane has finally touched down onto American soil, Paul finds himself feeling even more unsettled and anxious. Too late now, but he wishes he could just turn on that ignorance mode again, pretending that there is no such city as New York on the world map. But Till was right, of course – they just can't keep avoiding each other forever, and apparently the crucial moment has come._

_However, once Paul's out of the enclosed space of the plane, he's unexpectedly relieved to find that composing himself isn't such an impossible task after all. The sky above his head is endlessly blue, with a scatter of little white clouds, brilliantly shining in the warm rays of the summer sun. It must have been raining, Paul reflects as he puts on his shades and walks down the ladder – the air is damp and humid, making it seem hotter than it really is._

_It must have been those wretched memories that made him feel so distressed throughout the entire six-hour flight, and memories have nothing to do with the present, Paul tries to convince himself, waiting for his turn to get on the airport shuttle. Memories are in the past, and past is long gone, right? He's almost certain that there's nothing left of the feelings he once experienced back there in a tiny cottage lost among tall pines and blue hills in the state with the beautiful name Virginia. Why should he feel anything at all, really, when so much time has passed since then? Without those feeling complicating everything, they could even become friends again. And, suddenly, it seems to Paul so easy it makes him wonder how come they didn't reach the same conclusion a long time ago. Well, they were blinded by anger then, and they've both had ample opportunity to calm the fuck down, act like grownups and simply move on._

_Feeling a bit better about himself, Paul follows the signs that show the way to the baggage reclaim area and then out of the busy airport terminal. He still doesn't really know what kind of reaction he should expect from Richard – coldness, alienation or that unexpected delight – but he thinks could handle anything right now. He's come here to finally make things right, and this time, he isn’t going to fuck up._

_It doesn't take him long to spot Richard. He's waiting beside his car – a German car, Paul notices with a strangely warm feeling, as if it proves that the man still hasn't gone native. There's a smouldering cigarette in his hand and shades are hiding his eyes. His hair is in a usual, gelled disarray, and he's got a mild tan on his skin, which suits him very well. All that is so essentially like Richard that it makes Paul smirk to himself as he's making his way towards his colleague._

_Richard must have noticed him as well because his cigarette is immediately flicked onto the drain and he waves his hand, a wide grin brightening his thoughtful features. He smiles so genuinely and openly that Paul's reserved smirk turns into a return grin in no time at all. He catches himself thinking that it was the last thing he actually expected from their first meeting – that they would be grinning at each other like imbeciles._

_But here they are, doing just that._

_As Paul comes close enough, Richard finally takes off his sunglasses, and the most surprising thing of all is that this radiant, sincere smile is touching his eyes as well. And before Paul has enough time to reflect on how long ago he saw such extraordinary things, or even say 'hello' for that matter, he's grabbed hold of and pulled into such a long-forgotten, friendly and so magnificently tight hug he can hardly breathe._

_He greets Richard with a return, slightly less certain, embrace, and all of a sudden it dawns on him why it has never been easy to give up what they had, no matter what they'd call it. The tightness with which those strong arms are holding him is literally forcing up all those shut off memories back into his head. What's worse, it's not only memories – he's overwhelmed by physical sensations like by a huge, mighty wave, all of them so painfully familiar: the feeling of Richard's palm rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades – he always did that, as if by some habit; the mixture of the smells of his aftershave, hair gel and cigarettes; the warm breath which is brushing the side of his throat just above the collar of his polo shirt, the coarse touch of his chin against the same spot._

_Paul's arms wrap around Richard's waist as if by their own will, even more tightly upon hearing a very quiet, but still very distinct,_ 'Thank you'.

_He doesn't need to ask what Richard's thanking him for – he knows it very well. For coming. For taking this first step into the unknown, and, to his genuine confusion, Paul realises he doesn't want that_ 'unknown' _anymore. He wants something familiar, something he knows well._

_He has to step away, however. There are people all around them, and it's definitely not good to be standing here like this, right in front of the crowded JFK terminal. Besides, Paul hasn't come here to return them into the abyss where everything was familiar. He doesn't need it. He still has intentions of doing away with that goddamn_ 'I love you' _once and for all._

_"Nice to see you again, man," Paul says as he finally pulls back, trying to shake off this momentary delusion that pounced on him. He can't help his wide grin for the life of him, however, and Richard's own radiant smile proves to him one thing – whatever intentions he might have, it isn't going to be easy for him to make them come true at his whim. Definitely not when this man smiles at him the way he is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'In My Other World' by Julee Cruise and Louis Tucci, covered by Maestro Martin Lee Gore, if anyone needs a soundtrack to the misery.  
> I promise it gets more hopeful from here.


	7. Chapter 7

_And oh what a feeling  
Inside of me  
It might last for an hour  
Wounds aren’t healing  
Inside of me  
Though it feels good now  
I know it’s only for now  
  
The feeling is intense  
You grip me with your eyes  
And then I realise  
It doesn’t matter.*(c)_

**2003, New York.**

Paul watches the night settling down over the bustling streets of the city which never sleeps out of the guest bedroom's window in Richard's apartment, for once not feeling consumed by anxiety. The darkness seems to have a soothing effect on him, as well as on the constant rush and hustle so characteristic of this place. The scent of the rain is lingering in the air again – Richard told him it had been pouring all morning – and it actually makes the summer heat a bit more bearable. There are lots of other smells as well – of the asphalt heated up during the scorching day, of the salt brought in from the harbour by the light evening breeze, and just a tinge of beer somebody must have spilt underneath his window. Paul takes a deep, slow breath, savouring this typically summery aroma while staring at the still reddening stripe of the sky far in the west, visible in between the surrounding buildings.

Apart from the fragrances, the air is also full of the sounds of summer. There are a few trees outside the window, and to his genuine surprise, Paul can quite distinctly hear the slightly muted rustle of their leaves. There are cars occasionally passing by, and motorbikes filling the silence with their sudden roars as they speed along the straight avenues. There's someone's drunken laughter coming from the bar around the corner and somebody's quiet conversation, but Paul can't make out the words.

He smirks contently to himself – it's been a long but pleasant day. He didn't expect things to turn out half as well as they did while he was still on the plane, being caught in the vice of the bitter memories. Richard never asked him about the reason for his current visit – to Paul's immense relief, because he still doesn't know exactly what to say. What he knows is that he'll have to get his shit together sooner or later but he's glad that Richard has given him an opportunity to catch his breath and take it all in first.

Instead of dwelling in the past and recalling offences, as soon as Paul had settled in, they went out to have a very late lunch at one of the cosy open-air cafes. It wasn't far away from Richard's place, and they could talk there as much as they liked without being recognised or interrupted. It turned out that they had a lot to catch up on what was happening in their respective lives, so they remained in that small intimate place for hours. They ended up ordering dinner as well.

Paul was surprised to learn that Richard's marriage was on the verge of falling to pieces. Well, _'surprised'_ was actually the wrong word, taking into consideration his bandmate's fondness for basking in female attention. Still, when he last saw him and his wife together, they did seem pretty happy, so Paul supposed that marriage had actually succeeded in making the man a bit more faithful. That last time, however, happened quite a while ago, and Paul should have guessed that something wasn't quite right the moment he stepped through the front door of Richard's place – even the apartment itself seemed desolate, sterile, as if something was missing there. Well, something indeed was – Richard's wife, for starters.

"We never really managed to find mutual understanding, y'know," Richard mused while taking a sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on the street outside the little terrace where they were lounging.

A woman with a little boy of about two perched up on her arm walked past, dressed as if she was going to some gala dinner on her impressively high heels, flaunting her hips, which were just as impressive as her footwear. Richard followed her with a thoughtful glance, and Paul did his best to hold back a smirk. Some things just never changed.

"She wanted a family and all what comes with it, and I--"

"--and you just wanted to fuck around," Paul finished. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut, though, once he noticed Richard's lips stretch into a sour smirk. "Damn, I'm sorry, I didn't--"

"Nah, you're actually right," he snorted, slowly rotating his coffee cup. "It's what I did, in fact, so she had every right to leave."

"So, how long since you separated?"

"A few months. She's off to her parents' in..." Richard trailed off, staring at the black porcelain sugar bowl in confusion. "I don't even remember where it is. See, I've been a disaster of a husband."

"Well, maybe you just needed a break from each other?" Paul suggested, simply for the sake of acting like a good old friend when it dawned on him that it was exactly what Richard and he had done, and here they were, seemingly getting on better than they had in years. He kept that observation to himself, though.

Richard just shook his head, letting his gaze drift back onto the streets.

"She won't come back because some things just aren't destined to work. She's better off on her own, that's for sure. And so am I."

"So that big apartment of yours hasn't really remained vacant, you mean."

"Well..." Richard chuckled, and Paul grinned back at him. No, some things never changed, and Richard hating being alone in bed was one of them.

"On and off, I see."

"No constant girlfriend – I'm still married, after all," Richard smiled. "No boyfriend either."

Paul returned his smile, not particularly pleased to suddenly feeling that familiar sting of jealousy when hearing the word _'boyfriend_ '. He tried to shake it off, however – any jealousy should have long become irrelevant to him. It didn't matter who Richard slept with, not anymore. Did it?

"And I'm clean now," Richard said, changing the topic.

"Oh?" Paul raised his eyebrow, glad to have a chance to avoid the sensitive subject of anyone's relationships.

"Yeah, done with drugs."

Richard took a mouthful of his coffee and wrinkled his nose since it must have grown cold.

"It was Caron's initiative. No idea how she managed to persuade me, but I'm glad she did."

"Now that's some good news at last!" Paul playfully punched his forearm.

"It didn't go particularly well with song-writing, but I'm getting there. You just have to look for inspiration elsewhere."  
  


Back then, Richard was all jokes and chuckles, telling him about how he fought his addiction as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and it makes Paul wonder how much was hidden from him behind the carefree banter. In fact, back in Berlin, in one of his numerous attempts to talk some sense into Paul and persuade him to take the first step towards sorting out his problems with Richard, Schneider had already mentioned something about Richard being in the rehab. At the time, Paul hadn't taken it seriously enough, but it had, after all, become a sort of a wakeup call. Now that he could finally see Richard for himself, sadness in his eyes and a few new lines on his brow and deeper ones running down from the corners of his lips, he suddenly understood that his bandmate didn't really look like a flashy rockstar that was living his fancy dream life in the blessed America. Instead, he looked as if he had gone through hell, and all of that on his own…

Presently, mere thinking about it makes Paul wince – even though quite some time has passed since his own decision to break the habit, he can perfectly well remember how much effort it cost him to kick the party favours, even the light ones. And at that time, Richard was still with him, and Paul can't express how thankful he is to him for not leaving him all alone. He can only hope that Richard's wife did the same for him when he needed it most of all.

Another thing holding Paul off from finally curling up in his bed and passing out is wondering whether that physical longing, which once so strongly bonded them together, is now gone. Right here, in the darkness of his bedroom and with no Richard in sight, it seems to Paul fairly possible – haven't they just proved that they could actually speak civilly without tearing off each other's clothes and leaving bruises and hickeys all over their bodies? This night out, filled with nice, friendly chatter, was perfect beyond belief, and he hasn't yet had a single urge to fuck Richard into oblivion, as used to be the case. That must be a good sign, after all, Paul concludes. If it goes on like this, then there's hope that, in the end, they might weather this storm that's been raging for way too long. There's still a seed of doubt somewhere deep inside of him, though, as to whether it is something to be particularly happy about, but Paul dismisses the thought before it grips a proper hold of him.

A soft click of the opening door reaches his ears exactly when Paul is about to leave his viewing point by the window. He's a little surprised to see Richard peering in through the door opening at this hour.

"I thought you'd be out like a light," Richard whispers as if he doesn't want to wake anyone up, even though they're the only occupants of the place and both turn out to be pretty wide awake.

"You aren't in bed either," Paul replies just as quietly, suddenly feeling a cool whiff of the night air wafting in underneath the hem of his t-shirt. It makes him shudder, and he takes a couple of steps away from the window. Or is it _only_ the draft's fault? "Has this city made you an insomniac?"

"Not the _city_ ," Richard shakes his head. "Definitely not the city."

Paul can see him smile. It's dark in the room, but there's still a sufficient amount of light seeping in from the diverse light sources outside to see that soft smirk lingering on Richard's lips as he confidently walks through the room. Paul knows this kind of smile intimately, as well as he knows this look in Richard's eyes. Has anyone ever been able to resist it? For a fleeting moment, Paul mentally mocks himself for being such an idiot as to assume that there's no longing left anymore. Once again, the fool. In a heartbeat, Richard is already in his comfort zone, close enough to let his lips brush along Paul's jaw until they come to a stop at his earring.

"I couldn't sleep knowing that you're in the room next door. Closer than we've been in a whole damn year."

Richard's breath provokes a whole flock of goosebumps immediately covering Paul's neck, rushing down along his arms and spine and making him shiver. _'At last'_ , he wants to add. 'In the room next door _at such a long last._ ' But he can't be bothered anymore – talking would mean lifting his own lips off Richard's warm skin, and he's already too busy covering the side of his neck with yet hesitant kisses.

If there really is someone who can resist Richard's caresses, it sure isn't Paul; and why would he? It feels good, soothing, and takes his mind off all the intellectual reasoning he's been on about for the entire day, and he only needs his five basic senses for _this_.

For a while, all they do is kiss unhurriedly, as if getting reacquainted with each other, recalling the softness of the lips and the taste of the other's mouth. Though this slow pace is indeed very nice, soon it stops being enough, so Paul impatiently sneaks his cool hands underneath Richard's t-shirt, to the tempting warmth of his body. His skin feels smooth and slightly damp to the touch, Richard's muscles straining right underneath his fingers, so Paul spreads them wide – he wants to feel Richard's every single reaction, he wants to know if he's been missing this as much as he has. His touches make his runaway bandmate cling a bit closer, pressing up against him, and Paul simply can't hold back a yet shy, weak moan, gently nibbling at his partner's bottom lip with his teeth. That gives Richard's tongue freedom, and he doesn't hesitate to run it over Paul's teeth and lips, causing his brain to shut down completely. Come what may, he absently reflects, totally disregarding any intentions of giving up their sexual encounters and instead granting his lover more access as he opens his mouth a little wider, tasting the long-forgotten bitterness of his cigarettes on the tip of his tongue.

Richard's t-shirt stubbornly keeps getting in the way, so Paul makes an attempt to pull it off, his hands shaking as if he's running a fever. Richard does the same for him, and during this short break, before they get back to more urgent activities, Paul catches a glimpse of his partner's eyes. The pure passion he sees in them is almost strong enough to dispel the darkness around them, and he no longer wonders how Richard manages to compel him into this over and over again, even after having this affair going for nigh on fifteen years. Apparently, it's in his very nature to be able to make someone he desires feel wanted, needed, adored, and Paul has not been able to resist it since day one.

It isn't long before they're kneeling on the soft, springy mattress of the guestroom bed, facing each other, completely naked and shivering as the occasional draft from the open window sweeps over their heated skin. Paul can see his lover's dark eyelashes flutter and the wet tip of his tongue flicker over his full lips as they part in anticipation of another deep, hungry kiss. As his hands get themselves busy remembering how Richard's body feels to the touch, Paul lets his fascinated gaze wander, taking in every little, almost forgotten, detail – Richard's sharply defined jawline, his strong shoulders and the gentle curve of his stomach – until it reaches the very substantial evidence of just how _much_ he is, in fact, desired.

Even if there's nothing else left for the two of them apart from this wonderful carnality, let it be so, Paul thinks – he'll be perfectly content to the end of his days should Richard always want him like this, to the tremble in his hands as they wander all over Paul's body and to the quiver in his breath when Paul responds to him in kind. Paul opens his mouth to let him know about it but all he's able to produce is a quiet, strangled sigh because this man looks almost good enough to eat. Paul just can't help wanting him – every part of him, every kiss, every breath he takes – and apparently, he never will.

So he muffles his breathless revelations against Richard's lips, as Richard finally takes their fully engorged cocks into the firm hold of his hand. This feels so intense that Paul helplessly squeezes his eyes, pushing his forehead against his partner's shoulder, feeling the throbbing manifestation of his lover's desire pressed against his own flesh: thin, hot skin moving smoothly against his own. Clawing at Richard's upper arms, Paul leaves a series of appreciative kisses on his collar bone, absently thinking that he would be willing to sell his soul to the Devil himself if the latter could give him a chance to be able to bask in this bliss forever. Sell, bah! He'd gladly give his _everything_ , just please, _please_ , let it last!

"Please," Paul hoarsely mutters as an echo of his thoughts, bucking his hips to meet Richard's hand and letting his palms slide down along his sides until they reach his partner's firm, toned buttocks.

This seems to be the best greeting he's ever received in his entire life and so stunningly different from what they got used to over the past few years. This is so brilliantly leisurely, every single limb of their bodies moving with fantastic precision, aimed at turning this lovemaking into ultimate heaven.

The sensation soon starts to feel almost burning on his sensitive skin with the only moisture being the sweat on Richard's palm and the pre-cum oozing from the tips of their tightly together squeezed members, but Paul has no intention to complain. It's just too damn good to be bothered by anything. So he lets his hand leave its comfortable place on Richard's behind and wraps it around their cocks from the other side, making it the most intimate kind of a handshake. Gently tightening his grip, he feels Richard immediately responding with a light squeeze, which goes straight to their swollen erections. It tears a soft moan of pleasure from Paul's mouth, and he realises he doesn't know anymore whose lips he is biting. Soon, he can't either kiss or bite anymore – he just leaves his mouth lingering against Richard's while the synchronised movements of their hands bring them closer to becoming one being, one body, one pleasure. Again.

And this is spectacular. This feels right. There's nothing else in the entire Universe but the two of them, harmonised to the extent that there are just a few heartbeats in between their respective muffled moans of pleasure and the white viscous splashes that stain their joint hands. It almost brings tears to his eyes and causes painful spasms in his limbs, and Paul finds himself on the verge of, once again, confessing his true, pure, genuine love as all the old complaints, grievances and accusations simply fade away, making him unable to resist this all-absorbing wave of pleasure.

But when they finally collapse onto the crisp bed linens, the world, inevitably, falls back into place. It literally squeezes itself in between their damp, slack bodies, pushing them apart to the opposite sides of the bed, just like it's done so many times before. This world is dull, cold and cruel, but Paul knows it's they who made it that way. There's another realisation which slowly occurs to him through the remaining fog in his head, that sex, even as satisfying as this, isn't a magic remedy which could make everything right again. In the end, it's always the words they choose to say or choose to hold back and the actions to prove them. 

Wearily, Paul opens his eyes, wishing like never before that he could dwell in that blissful oblivion a bit longer – he doesn't want to face this brutal and complicated world yet. The first thing he sees is the slightly ajar window, a light breeze stirring the curtains. This time, though, it's unpleasantly cool, and Paul makes a mental note that they'd better close the window before one of them catches their death of cold in here. A cold in the summertime would be horribly unfair. That said, no one ever promised them that life would be fair.

"Paul?" Richard's quiet voice distracts him from his absurd contemplation of the ways of the world.

"Huh?" Paul turns his head just enough to see Richard's prostrated figure out of the corner of his eye.

"Why are you here?"

Some time ago, this question would have definitely pissed Paul off – for fuck's sake, he _is_ here, he's made this bloody first step, what else is he expected to do?! Not anymore, though. Now it makes him feel scared. Scared because he still hasn't made up his mind. Scared because he's confused. Scared because he doesn't know what he wants. Now even less than ever before, in fact.

And seriously, _why_ in the world is he here? Because he misses Richard? Because he wants Richard? Because Till persuaded him to come? Or maybe because he wants to put an end to it, once and for all, just like he planned? But does he really? Paul knows so little that he feels like a grain of space dust lost in a huge galaxy.

"I..." he starts but interrupts himself in uncertainty. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?" he finally sighs, realising with a certain amount of shame and disgust that it is precisely what he promised Richard a year ago. That is, promised, upped and left, not even waiting for the break of dawn. "I can barely string two words together right now."

It sounds fake and distant, but Paul can't think of anything to soften it with. 

"Yeah, sure," Richard agrees all too quickly.

The mattress shifts as he rolls over, most probably intending to leave. Just like before. Has nothing at all changed, after all? Paul wonders in dismay.

"You must be tired, I'll get out of your hair," Richard says quietly, and Paul feels a soft touch of his warm fingertips on his shoulder.

But does he really want to be left on his own? Hasn't he been left like this far too many times already? It reminds Paul of the past few years of hell. If he lets Richard leave, won't this just be a bad replay of what they're trying to get away from?

"No." He rolls over to face Richard, taking hold of his hand before giving it a chance to let go of his shoulder. "Stay."

Richard just blankly stares back at him in silence, making Paul's heart fill with despair. He's already said _that_ as well.

" _Please_?" he mouths soundlessly, almost hating himself for this little pathetic word he can't even pronounce properly.

It takes Richard a horrible long while to answer, leaving Paul on pins and needles as he waits.

"I'll just fetch another blanket then, okay? This one won't be enough for two."

Richard's faint smile makes genuine relief replace the feeling of despair Paul has just experienced. He nods lightly, reluctantly letting go of his partner's hand.

He didn't need much to take this leap from sorrow to delight, Paul muses, watching Richard get off the bed. If he'd always managed to make him smile like this, maybe nothing bad would have ever happened to them. Nothing which would have driven them to opposite parts of the world, with miles of silence, distrust and misunderstanding separating them. Paul can feel all those miles even now, when they are in the same room and in the same bed together.

Tiredly pulling the blanket from under himself, he stretches out his weary limbs as his gaze follows Richard's every single movement, especially the way that nice, round butt of his strains and relaxes as he walks towards the door. And then, when he returns with another rolled-up blanket tucked in under his arm and an extra pillow, Paul allows himself to literally feast on the gorgeous body in front of him. There's one thing he knows for sure – he adores Richard's every feature: his well-knit figure, the tangled mess of his dark hair, the gentle curve of his belly and his now slackened erection. How can a mortal human being look just like a marble statue of some ancient god? Paul wonders, enchanted with the sight. The lack of proper lighting inside the bedroom only makes the resemblance more striking.

And this perfection used to belong to him, once. Completely. Body and soul.

What Paul's body desires is to take Richard into his arms, hold him, kiss him, over and over again repeating how beautiful he is, and how awfully essential, and how lucky Paul is to have the chance to be so close. And how much in love he actually is… Then he blinks to interrupt that uncontrollable stream of thoughts and visions – he hasn't come here for that, has he? No, he isn't going to make the same mistake again, at least not before they finally talk it all through.

So when Richard slips under the blanket beside him, all Paul allows himself to do is to tentatively find his hand with his own and give it a light squeeze.

"Good night," Richard whispers, for a few moments letting his lips linger on Paul's bare shoulder.

It makes his breath get caught in his throat again.

"Night," Paul sighs, feeling how the warm fingers brush the back of his hand so impossibly tenderly. He isn't sure if the touch brings him more bliss or torment, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'It Doesn't Matter Two' by Depeche Mode
> 
> Paulie just keeps being a fool XD


	8. Chapter 8

_Maybe I'm still hurting  
I can't turn the other cheek  
But you know that I still love you  
It's just that I can't speak_

_I looked for you in everyone  
And they called me on that too  
I lived alone but I was only  
Coming back to you.*(c)_

**2003, New York.**

A persistent buzz, actually sounding more like a war bugle than anything else, is coming from somewhere outside the cosy darkness he's enveloped in. It pulls Paul into a sunlit bedroom, not gently at all. Squinting at the morning light, he struggles to remember where he is, but his memory stubbornly refuses to obey, so instead he wonders how the hell he's got here in the first place. The bed, the pillow, the wallpaper, the view from the window, and even the curtains, are unfamiliar to him, and Paul fumbles for his phone on the nightstand which is also utterly alien.

_"Tell me you haven't killed each other yet."_

The message is from Till, and that instantly makes the penny drop – he's in New York, in Richard's apartment, they had sex last night and he still doesn't know what the hell he is here for. Perfect, Paul sighs, rubbing his eyes to shake off the remains of sleep. All according to plan, damn it.

"For fuck's sake, Till, it's bloody early in the morning here…" he mumbles into the pillow as if Till could actually hear him and tosses the phone back onto the nightstand. Let him think there are casualties, then he might come here and sort it all out himself.

The pillowcase has Richard's scent on it, which makes Paul finally draw the conclusion that the man himself is missing. He takes a few deep breaths, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind why the hell he is doing it. Somehow, it is nice to be able to feel it again. The slightly muted sound of footsteps somewhere outside the bedroom interrupts Paul's breathing exercises and the first, ridiculous, thing that pops into his mind is that it's is Richard's wife.

Why would that even bother him, though? Richard's wife is Richard's problem, not his, and Paul has his own issues to deal with right now. A soft, barely distinguishable, voice inside of him timidly suggests that it probably bothers him because he wants to have Richard all for himself while he's here, but Paul dismisses it with annoyance. He doesn't want that. He doesn't care anymore. He won't let some stupid inner voice send him off on another wild goose chase again.

Paul waits until the footsteps fade away – he doesn't really want to attract Richard's attention and let him know he's already up – and only then quietly gets out of bed, cursing both Till and his daft messages under his breath. His clothes are scattered all over the carpeted floor – a stark reminder of the last night's debauchery – and he picks them up on his way towards the window, lingering by it for a while as the fresh morning air gently blows in past him. Against his will, Paul's head gets filled with visions of what they did, so vivid they make him shudder. He can easily recall Richard's lecherous smirk, the way he smelled, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hips, the sensation of his erection rubbing against Paul's stomach… and what followed, as well, his own urge to babble ludicrous things while Richard jerked him off and kissed him stupid.

Oh for fuck's sake, it was just _sex_ , nothing more to it! Paul doesn't want to think about last night – he doesn't need his head to rewind all those memories again – but oh god, it is hard not to think of what turned out to be their only encounter in a whole damn year. Of Richard's hands, sliding down his sides, his fingertips brushing, tickling, teasing him. Of the languidness of the kisses they shared, as if all the time in the world belonged to them. Of the passion, the slow, purposeful, deliberate passion, if such a thing can exist at all.

_No, this won't do_.

With a sigh, Paul leaves the window and shrugs on his clothes, innately knowing very well that he wouldn't mind a repetition of the performance. But that's not what he really wants, is it? It's that elusive feeling of trust and care they shared ages ago that he wants, but it's long gone. And he's here on another mission.

He doesn't have the courage to face Richard right now, though, so he does his best to sneak out of the bedroom unnoticed.

"You up already?" Richard's voice, slightly hoarse, calls from the kitchen.

Damn it, has he been waiting for him to wake up? On second thought, that would have been the most sensible thing to do considering how he fled the unwanted conversation with Richard a year ago, Paul sleepily muses, not particularly proud of that decision.

"Yeah," he presently replies in the general direction of the kitchen, hastily retreating to the bathroom.

"Want some breakfast?" The question is accompanied by a rattle of kitchen utensils.

"Whatever is there in your fridge. And--"

"--and coffee with milk and without sugar, I know," the voice chuckles.

This makes Paul smirk despite himself – they do know each other inside out, after all. But as much as the observation is amusing, it is bitter – it all seems just too perfect to be true, and old wounds heal slowly. So Paul isn't in a hurry to join his bandmate at the kitchen table – he deliberately postpones their meeting and the promised talk along with it, which he knows is exactly what Richard is waiting for. The inevitability is all but pressing on his shoulders now as he slowly steps into the shower cabin, enjoying the lukewarm water and methodically scrubbing the dried stains of last night's romp off his stomach. Then, he just as methodically brushes his teeth and shaves the shadow off his cheeks. He does every single action with such precision as if it could dot all the _i's_ and cross all the _t's_ for him.

He must have been in the bathroom for a whole eternity when Richard's muted voice on the other side of the door refocuses his attention back on the real world and his real problems.

"You haven't drowned in there, right?" he cheerfully asks, but Paul knows him better than that. His laughter sounds fake. He is also nervous, though probably not as nervous as Paul is.

"Just lost the track of time, sorry!" he shouts, just as happily and with just as much pretence.

"Your breakfast's growing cold, y'know?"

"I'm coming, Richard!" Paul replies, shaking his head.

No, this is simply ridiculous! Why the fuck is he so terrified of talking to Richard that he hides in the bloody bathroom like some cowardly child? He can't think of anything to do but to give Till a mental punch in the face again. Deep down, Paul knows that none of this is Till's fault, but for crying out loud, it was _he_ who persuaded Paul to come here. And he just needs to give someone hell to pay apart from Richard and himself for once.

_He isn't happy, you aren't happy…_

Paul just wishes he had a fucking clue as to how to make them happy again. Something tells him that it wouldn't miraculously occur if they simply _decided_ to be happy from now on. Haven't they already tried that enough times to know it won't work?

This is so utterly absurd that Paul would definitely laugh if only it wasn't equally sad. He, a grown man who has crossed half of the fucking world to solve this once and for all, can't even make himself find enough courage to leave the bloody bathroom.

Paul huffs in irritation as he wraps a towel around his hips and finally sneaks out into the hallway, tip-toeing back towards the guestroom and hoping against all common sense that Richard will somehow forget about his existence. To his dismay, Richard does not. What's more, by the looks of it, Richard is in a very determined mood this morning since he doesn't even let Paul open the door, trapping him in the corner like some cowed animal. His hand is securely placed on the door handle, so there's no chance of opening it without physically making him get out of the way. So here they are again – the shit is obviously about to hit the fan, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since they met.

"For how long are you going to keep avoiding me today, Paul?" Richard asks, calmly for now, but Paul knows that it doesn't indicate that he is calm – he has that astounding ability to switch from serenity to anger in a matter of seconds.

"I'm not avoiding you," he says defensively, refusing to look Richard in the eye, however. "Maybe you'll be so kind as to let me get dressed first, huh?"

Richard shows no sign of intending to let him out of the corner, so Paul just pushes his hand off the door handle and hastily slips into the bedroom, feeling how the hairs on the back of his neck stand in anticipation of another falling out coming on like a freight train.

"Then _what the fuck_ are you doing now?!" Richard yells in his hoarse voice from behind the door Paul has just slammed shut right into his face.

Too late, he wishes he had quietly closed it instead so as not to further provoke his already rather annoyed host. No, obviously nothing has changed – Richard just keeps yelling and Paul keeps on ignoring him to the best of his abilities. And he must admit he's got pretty good at this over the years. Accidentally, he catches sight of his half-unpacked suitcase, which makes him wonder whether he'll have to pack it all over again within the next half an hour.

Damn it, Till really did choose the wrong person to come here. They'll end up in even deeper shit, that's for sure.

"Paul?" To his surprise, Richard's voice is actually lowered to a normal tone. "Look, I'm sorry. Please, may I come in?"

This unexpected apology, and even more so the shift in the mood, makes Paul stop his wistful examination of the contents of his suitcase and look at the door instead. It feels like the change in Richard's voice changes something inside of him as well, making him aware that what he's doing right now is exactly what he was accused of just a few moments ago – well, he really _is_ doing his damnedest best to avoid Richard. This, in turn, makes him ashamed of himself – wasn't it him who, less that twenty-four hours ago, was so determined to make up with his troublesome fellow guitarist?

_"Shit,"_ Paul tiredly mutters and heads for the door, still wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his hips. To hell with everything – the sooner they deal with the talking part, the better.

"Okay, I'm sorry, too," he sighs as he opens the door. "I shouldn't have done that."

Remarkably, what Richard does next is softly chuckles. It is a sad sound, but it's a chuckle nonetheless, and it makes Paul properly look at him for what seems like the first time this morning. And before he manages to come up with something else to say, Richard steps closer, and Paul suddenly finds himself taken into that familiar, disarmingly friendly, hug he's never been able to resist.

"Look…" His voice is so quiet that the sole reason Paul can hear it is that Richard is murmuring words right into his ear. "I don't know why you've come, or why you keep avoiding me now that you are here anyway, so just let me tell you something, okay? I'm not looking for another fight, I'm as tired of them as you are."

Richard speaks in such a soft, soothing tone that Paul's hand slips off the door handle and travels to his bandmate's waist, as if by its own will.

"You can keep silent if you want to, but, please, just hear me out? It's not easy for me to speak, but I'll do my best, alright?"

Paul nods, totally oblivious as to how his other hand comes to rest on Richard's hip, absently pulling him a little closer to himself.

"I want to apologise," Richard steadily continues, as if he's been rehearsing this single sentence for quite a while. "Not only for today, but for everything I've said and done. I know you're here on band business, but there'll be time for that, and now I just want it to be about us."

_Us._ It almost makes Paul cringe, and he tiredly closes his eyes. When did they stop being _'us'_? he wonders. Apparently, the moment they stopped being happy.

"I know I was being a dickhead to everyone, and most of all to you, most of the time, but I really thought I was right back then, you know? I still think I was right at some points, but it doesn't even matter anymore whether I was or not. It's taken me a while to realise that, but I guess better late than never…"

It makes a faint smile shadow Paul's face. A bitter thing it is, but it is still a smile. Is it possible that if they become _'us'_ once again, it will make them happy? The jury is still on that, though. Could it really? Or is it just another lie in a row of many which they'll take for granted now and suffer the consequences later? He would have believed it ten years ago, he really would. But not now, not when life has repeatedly proved them wrong.

"Until I left Berlin and came here, I'd really had no idea of just how much of me is actually you, Paul," Richard, meanwhile, goes on, just as quietly, unaware of everything which is going through Paul's head. "It's like I left a part of myself there and I miss that part terribly."

He feels a soft breath against the side of his neck, and it makes him instinctively snuggle a little closer to Richard. Yeah, it wasn't only this past year that made them miss each other. It had been going on for quite a while even before that, and now it feels like Richard steals his own words from the tip of his tongue. Paul has never even suspected that they were there, ready to be spoken, but it's all the same, it's as if Richard's somehow able to read his mind. But even that isn't enough to make him believe so easily that they still have a second chance.

"I'm sorry for having hurt you. I was pissed off and I thought you wanted to hurt me in the first place, so I did the same in return, the fool that I was, in the end hurting myself and everyone around, too," Richard huffs bitterly. "So here you have me, admitting that I'm an utter idiot. Forgive me if you can, alright?"

Paul feels the warmth that slides over his bare skin as Richard's hand cautiously moves along his spine. He can't say a single word in reply, though. He knows he has to, eventually, and that Richard deserves to hear at least bloody _something_ from him, but as if struck by some spell, he's still unable to open his mouth.

"I love you," Richard quietly says, the words resonating through Paul's body with the force of an electrical shock. "I loved you long before I said it for the first time; I meant it every time I said it afterwards; and even when I was sure I hated you with all my heart, I loved you; and I love you still."

Paul swallows hard, biting his bottom lip in order to prevent himself from blurting out the same, dangerous, disastrous words. This just isn't right. He cannot do that. And for heaven's sake, why does it hurt him so much even now when Richard obviously doesn't mean to inflict any pain whatsoever but quite the opposite?

"I know it's nothing but mere words to you now, and you've got every right to think so," Richard quietly continues, as if he somehow reads Paul's innermost thoughts. "I know you don't trust me anymore, and I deserve that. I'm not expecting you to trust me again, but I'm asking you to give us a chance, and I'll do my best to win it back, okay? Because I miss you awfully, Paul, the friend you've always been and the best lover I've ever had."

A quiet _'fuck'_ is all Paul can mutter in response.

There's so much he wants to say – how he loved him, and how he hated him, and how he needed him, how he missed him and how he tried to forget him… but there seems to be too much of everything, and Richard has completely disarmed him by looking right into his very soul. He is so right that Paul feels stripped naked, standing there, trapped in his arms and dressed in nothing but that stupid damp towel.

And he still cannot speak, his heart threatening to choke him as it leaps up into his throat, making Paul cling closer to this illusion of care he's enveloped in. He discovers he wants to take solace in this long-forgotten closeness, the way he used to do such a long time ago when Richard's arms felt like a home away from home no matter what turn their lives took, but, oh god, how can they ever start again if they continue lying to each other? And how can they ever earn that trust back if not by telling the truth? So Paul decides to confess, wondering whether Richard is going to throw a fit and maybe throw him out, too, when he hears his revelations. It would be so much like him – emotional, passionate, he wouldn't tolerate his most profound feelings trampled by Paul's clumsy confessions. And if he _does_ get pissed off, it will only mean that nothing has really changed and nothing could be mended.

"You know…" Paul finally starts, afraid of what he's going to say. "While I was on my way here, I thought I'd finally found the answer to what could make us both happy."

"And that was…?" Richard asks just as quietly, but Paul can distinguish the poorly hidden anxiety in his voice.

He screws up his eyes – it suddenly seems so mean to say it to Richard, who is apparently anticipating nothing of that sort. But he has to. Fair is fair.

"I thought we'd be better off if we gave it up. You and me."

Here we go. Paul barely dares to breathe, inwardly cringing and waiting for all hell to break loose. He was supposed to fix this, but, most likely, he just blew it out of the water, once again. And now it'll be his own fault because Richard has done all he's capable of to get them back on the right track.

But there's only silence. Is it just the calm before the storm, or…?

To his horror, Richard moves back, and, in a heartbeat, their eyes meet again. There's so much sadness in his gaze, along with surprise and fear. But no anger. Not even a hint of it.

_"Thought?"_ Richard asks almost inaudibly. "Do you still think so?"

Paul suddenly gets uncomfortably aware of what a jerk he must be right now – he just keeps on doing what he's got so used to lately – he runs away from his problems. He used to justify it by the fact that it was Richard, in the first place, who never seemed to give a flying fuck about his feelings, but isn't it the other way around this time? When, for once, Richard is trying to care the best way he knows how, Paul still keeps hiding behind the wall of silence and indifference.

He knows that there are things he should be asking forgiveness for, too, he's not that dumb to assume it's all Richard's fault. But how hard it is! So, instead of a reply, he simply shakes his head, like some guilty child, too scared to admit his own mistakes, scared to even open his mouth again for the fear of making it all even worse, ashamed and confused. Wanting to believe Richard, yet so reluctant to do so, because it's so essentially Richard and yet so unlike him at the same time. The usual, mixed stream of words and promises, ideas and revelations, apologies and love confessions… but for once, all he says sounds so sensible. Or could it be that they just haven't seen each other for so long that he has simply forgotten how things really work? Maybe all their words are going to turn into hollow promises come tomorrow…

Richard's long, steady gaze doesn't make it any easier for Paul to decide what he really wants, and the sadness in it finally makes him lower his own eyes. Till shouldn't have brought up that stupid topic of being happy. Who cares whether they are happy or not when they've got a contract obliging them to work together anyway?

"Is it too late, Paul?" Richard asks as he moves closer again, his lips brushing over Paul's cheek. He sounds both profoundly shocked and terrified, the mixture of emotions so sincere and open that it makes Paul wince. "It cannot be."

He knows he isn't able to resist that voice. He's never been. But only now does he realise just how much he's been missing it. How much he's been missing this Richard, honest and caring. Paul thought he'd passed that stage long ago, but he was wrong, yet again. Was he ever right at all?

"I still love you," Richard repeats, interrupting his confused train of thought.

He sounds so earnest as if he long ago came to this conclusion, and have had more than enough time to reconcile with this fact. It is strangely painful to hear this, again. It hurts Paul deep inside, somewhere behind his solar plexus, echoing with dull ache through his chest. If he only could, he'd laugh, but the tightness clenching his throat doesn't let him produce a sound.

"Don't," he finally hisses, his voice on the verge of breaking into anger which has seemingly come out of nowhere. He can't even tell who he's annoyed with, Richard or himself or the entire world.

The towel finally slips off his hips, leaving him completely naked and vulnerable, but he doesn't care.

"Don't _what_?" Richard asks almost tenderly, in stark contrast to Paul's own tone, as if he was really talking to a child. "Love you?"

All Paul can do is shake his head, almost guiltily at that. "Don't say that," he whispers, refusing to even give Richard a glance.

_Forgive me_ , he actually wants to say, but the words seem to be too hard to articulate. He can't see his partner's face, but he can feel his disappointment, as if it was seething out through Richard's very pores. And he's being too cowardly to look up to actually witness it, so he shuts his eyes tightly and purses his lips, knowing very well that he's hurting Richard, but unable to help it, all the same.

"Okay," Richard finally murmurs, ever so softly. He does sound hurt, making Paul hate himself for it. "Okay," he repeats, as if trying to convince himself in the first place, and nods slightly.

A sigh which reaches Paul's ears, both shaky and miserable, states that his bandmate believes otherwise. Still, there's no anger, no yelling, no accusation – nothing of the sort Paul anticipated, and, for what seems like the first time in his life, he is feeling sorry for Richard, sorry in a very human sort of way. He's always been quick to get worked-up and quick to forgive, much quicker than Paul himself, which suddenly makes him realise that all the troubles they had in the past must have indeed remained in the past for Richard. This proves Paul wrong all over again, because, probably, instead of trying to forget the love, he should have been trying to forget the hatred.

The so unexpectedly reached conclusion, which could be totally off-the-walls wrong, too, for all Paul knows, actually instils him with some courage.

"We'll be okay," he quietly says, finally giving Richard a timid glance.

His voice, however, doesn't sound as confident as he'd like it to, and he can see in Richard's sad eyes that he's not all that sure about it anymore either. Still, a faint, barely noticeable, shadow of a smile lifts the corners of his lips as he nods again.

Paul doesn't say anything else – he really _cannot_ – although he knows that Richard wants, and deserves, to hear much more than that. But he puts it off for now – they'll have a chance to talk as much as they'll want, he persuades himself, breathing in the scent of Richard's skin, which leaves a bitter taste of despair at the back of his throat and makes him feel as if he's just signed yet another order to his own death sentence. And to seal it, Paul leans in, gingerly pressing his lips against Richard's warm mouth, leaving there a long, uncertain kiss. He has to repeat it a few more times before he finally feels a soft, hesitant movement in response.

"Your breakfast's grown cold, I'm afraid," Richard mutters at last, after a long while of silently holding Paul in his arms.

He sounds very much unlike himself, quiet and somehow resigned, which takes Paul aback – that is, if it is possible to grow even more surprised by the recent events, and the day hasn't even had a chance to begin properly yet.

"Have you eaten?" Paul asks, turning his head so that his cheek could lie on Richard's t-shirt-clad, sturdy shoulder.

It feels weird to be talking about food when just a while ago they were talking their lives. But maybe that's a good sign – not only can they civilly speak to each other after an attempt to sort out their problems, but they can actually be discussing as trivial a thing as breakfast. Maybe, there's hope, after all.

"Nah, couldn't force a morsel down my throat," Richard admits with a huff.

Paul lifts his head off its comfortable resting place to give his partner a glance, the sad smile and deep lines and sorrowful look in his eyes and all, and it does make something in his chest stir in sympathy. Knowing Richard, this long confession he's just made must have cost him a hell of a lot, and here Paul was punishing him in return with his own, much less optimistic confessions. Whatever it is they still have between each other, he realises he still cares, hell, cares a lot, and deliberately making Richard unhappy is not something he wants any more.

Slowly, Paul reaches out to stroke his cheek with his thumb, beckoning him to turn his head so that their eyes could meet. Richard obliges, albeit not immediately, trying to give Paul a smile and failing miserably. His valiant attempt at taking it stoically seems more like a grimace of pain rather than anything else, making Richard look somehow awfully forlorn and vulnerable.

"Richard…" Paul mutters but falls silent when he feels the man shake his head minutely.

He waits for Richard to say something but, instead, the latter turns his head a tad, which leaves his mouth pressed to Paul's palm, and then gives it a soft kiss, tender lips and coarse stubble on his chin a contrasting, tickling sensation on Paul's skin. It robs him of his words and of his breath once again, leaving him desiring nothing else but to take the man in his arms and never ever let go.

"Thank you," Richard says softly.

In different circumstances, Paul would probably think he's being sarcastic because he hasn't done anything to be grateful to him for, but Richard looks as far from sarcasm or jokes as he possibly can, so Paul assumes that he must be serious. Perhaps, his being able to restrain himself from turning this conversation into a scandal already counts as an achievement worthy of gratitude, ridiculous as it may sound. So he nods his head, caressing Richard's cheek until the latter closes his eyes. All Paul hopes for is that the touch can somehow transmit at least a part of the turmoil of feelings he has for the man.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore, Richard. Don't want to hurt anyone, that much I can assure you of," he says earnestly, but the jury is still on whether he will manage to accomplish it.

"Well, that's a good place to start, I guess…" Richard opens his eyes to _finally_ give him a more hopeful smile.

"Then how about going out somewhere and getting something to eat at last?" Paul asks after a while, a small smile on his own lips.

He wants to say so many other things but he's not sure he'll be able to convey just what exactly he is feeling properly enough to make Richard understand without giving him a wrong idea. But he promises himself he'll make sure to try and do it in the following days.

"Yeah, that could lift the spirits considerably," Richard nods. "Let's try that, there are a few good places around."

Paul opens his mouth to agree but the next moment he's interrupted by an unfamiliar ringtone, the sound coming from somewhere around the region of Richard's middle. Without letting him out of his embrace – as if apprehensive Paul might just bolt out the second he's left on his own – Richard fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the screen and, to Paul's surprise, produces a genuine chuckle.

"What's that?" he mouths, but instead of an answer, Richard just shows him the screen with Till's name shining on it. Despite the seriousness of the situation, all the recent confessions they've made and pain they've evoked, Paul, too, cannot hold back a huff. "He must be wondering if we have clobbered each other yet. Guess the probability was all too high."

With a grin, Richard pushes the answer button and before the singer has a chance to say anything, speaks trying to hold back laughter, "He's still breathing, Till, but he's naked, cold and hungry and I'm not planning on returning him back to Berlin in the nearest future, don't send help."

There's a genuine bark of laughter coming out of the receiver, which, even at this distance, sounds relieved. Well, it has every right to be, what with the two of them having a long history of being notoriously pig-headed and infamously short-tempered.

"That's all I wanted to know; have fun, you bastards," Till chuckles and disconnects before Richard has a chance to say anything in response.

Hiding his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants, he presses a sound kiss to Paul's forehead, briefly tightening the hold of his arm around his bare shoulders.

"So, breakfast?" he asks, sounding considerably more cheerful than he was just a while ago.

"Just one more thing before that…" Paul murmurs, turning in Richard's arms so that he could hug him properly and then directs him back into the bedroom. "I'm cold and naked and all, would be a waste of a nice opportunity not to--"

But he's not allowed to finish because Richard's lips are on his a moment later, soft and warm and eager, and breakfast has to be put off for yet another while longer.

*

The chance to say all Paul owes Richard – or at least the most essential things – presents itself soon enough. It's been a couple of days since their morning conversation, or rather, Richard's monologue, which somehow managed to persuade him that their mutual happiness depended on whether they were going to stay together. No major disaster has occurred since then, to Paul's immense relief – quite the opposite, the past two days have been nothing short of amazing. They spent them in a laid-back sort of way, either in the comfortable warmth of each other's arms, or making love, as if they needed to make up for the past year of silent loneliness, or going out somewhere – to have lunch, or to do the sights, or to meet a few of Richard's new friends.

The two of them must be making a rather amusing sight these days, Paul muses distracting from reading a book. He's in bed in the guestroom – Richard mentioned it was the only place in the apartment where he and his wife had never argued, so he liked it most of all – and Richard himself is dozing off by his side. The amusing thing is their cautious, even somewhat wary, dancing around each other. They both know they have majestically fucked up, so now they're apparently doing their best not to accidentally slip back into the dark abyss they have just managed to scramble out of.

It's mostly smiles, soft touches and light-hearted jokes all the way, but Paul suspects that underneath it all there's still a whole layer of permafrost which goes by the name of mutual distrust. And they'll have to do their best to melt it. There's much to restore if they really want to go back to the start, and the mere fact that Paul still doesn't really know whether he wants it or not, proves the vulnerability of the peace they seem to have momentarily found. Richard never brought up this topic again, and Paul feels unspeakably thankful to him for that. What gives him hope is that this shows better than any words that something has really changed. At other times, Richard would have already driven him up the wall, demanding an answer immediately, perhaps any kind of an answer, and would most probably have been told to go to hell.

The soft sound the bed linens make as Richard rolls over on the bed, moving closer, pulls Paul out of his pondering, and he absently glances to his left to have a look at what's going on. Having zoned out, he's slightly surprised to find Richard pressing his forehead against his shoulder – the sight looks so unusually, touchingly sincere that it strikes a chord inside of him that has been silent for years. He doesn't need to hear Richard say anything to know how much he actually needs him, it's the other way around. It's he who needs to say it to Richard.

So Paul marks the page on which he stopped and carefully puts the book onto the nightstand.

"I thought you were asleep," he whispers, nuzzling the top of Richard's head.

"I can't stand this distance," Richard mumbles just as quietly, right into Paul's shoulder, not moving away. "It reminds me of all the times it was between us when we slept together."

And oh, did that hurt! Paul closes his eyes, slowly breathing in the scent of Richard's hair. But it is good that it hurts, too. It means that the feelings didn't all die out a long time ago, after all.

"Richard…"

Shifting his position, Paul finally snuggles up beside him, carefully cupping his face with his hands. The minute movement of Richard's head as he turns it to leave a soft little peck on one of his palms, is enough to clench up Paul's throat. Somehow, he keeps doing it with disarming tenderness.

"Forgive me," he says, struggling with his own tongue.

Richard's eyes flutter open as he shoots him a surprised glance. Well, he does have the right to look surprised, after all those years of silence.

"For not being here for you," Paul mutters, fixing his gaze on Richard's lips. It's much easier that way – they at least don't have that sadness about them that his eyes do. "For running away," he continues, afraid to interrupt himself because once he stops, he knows he might never muster the courage again. And he needs to let it all out now. "For the silence. For everything, Richard. Could you?"

This time, his lover is the one who actually looks a bit lost for words. And who's ever heard of Richard Z. Kruspe having nothing to say? That is a first… It makes a faint smirk twist Paul's lips despite the chaos reigning inside of his head.

"I don't know what went wrong, Richard; I asked myself so many times and I still have no idea," he sighs, letting his thumb softly brush over the stubble on his chin. "I won't say I didn't want to hurt you, because I did, whatever kind of man it makes me, but I am sorry for it because…" he trails off, swallowing words with difficulty. No, he can't for the life of him say it again, not now. "Because I don't like seeing you hurt," he finishes lamely, a poor substitute in exchange for Richard's love. "I just hope that this time, we'll be wiser."

"What made you change your mind in the end?" Richard asks, apparently swallowing the fact of Paul's utter inability to confess his feelings.

"Is this going to lead to another shouting match, you think?" Paul asks in return, his question making Richard chuckle a little.

"Nah, it hasn't been long enough yet, I reckon," he smiles. A smile which would look nothing short of happy if it actually touched his eyes. But it doesn't. At least not yet.

"Well, you did sound reasonable for a change," Paul replies, almost sheepishly.

"I've had plenty of time to learn how to be."

"You really have changed."

"I know." Richard finally smiles a bit more genuinely. "I wanna get back with you and have fun again. Could we do it?"

There's just no way to put an end to that, is there? So Paul may just as well accept it, like he always has, and stop making up theories that breaking up is the best remedy to make them happy. At least for now, he can't see any other option but to take this second chance. He has no clue whether they will make it last, restore the trust and keep this warmth in the future, and he can't even say that it won't hurt trying. If they do something wrong again, it will hurt them alright.

"Why are you laughing?" Richard's quiet voice brings him back into the dimness of the cosily lit bedroom.

_Has he really been laughing?_ Paul wonders, joining their lips in a soft kiss. Those past couple of days must have made him hysterical. Or maybe it was those past couple of years.

"Life's strange," he says, smiling, hoping that Richard won't notice that it's actually a wistful smile.

He isn't lying to him this time, but he isn't telling it all, either – that even being in the same bed with Richard, holding him close, kissing him and enjoying it, he's still wondering how long they'll manage to last until they fuck it up again. There's almost _no doubt_ that they will – it's just a question of time.

"Yeah," Richard sighs, apparently not suspecting what's going on inside Paul's head right now. "It is."

"Everybody wants you back, Richard." Paul changes the topic before his gloomy thoughts consume him and spoil everything when it has just started to seem to be getting back on track. "There's no point in making music separately, we started it all together, so it won't work otherwise."

"And you?"

"And I just want you," Paul says, helplessly. "Always."

Well, at least this isn't a lie, which should probably be comforting. He isn't quite sure whether wanting Richard has done him much good, but it seems it can't be changed, no matter how hard he tries.

What _is_ good right now, though, is that his partner's eyes are finally included in his smile.

"You know, in that case, I'm quite ready to leave for Berlin."

"For fuck's sake, man!" Paul huffs, pressing his face against Richard's chest. "Let me have a breath of air, will you? I'm not as fond of skipping back and forth across the Pond as you are!"

Richard only laughs in reply, pulling him into a proper, tight, affectionate embrace.

Well, maybe it's still worth trying to save it. After all, quitting it can be done anytime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'Coming Back To You' by Leonard Cohen, but once again, it's Mr Gore's version all the way.
> 
> As far as this particular series is concerned, this can be considered as the last chapter of it. The next one is more of an epilogue rather than anything else, albeit of the size of a proper chapter, too, and it's here solely because this entire misery started with it. However, there is quite a bunch of stories related to this particular Universe, which I'm for some reason fond of. They were written randomly over quite a few years but all of them are in one way or another connected to this 'Coming back to you' ordeal these two had to suffer through XD so you might not be done with me and with their ~~idiocy~~ shenanigans for a while.


	9. Chapter 9

_I'm taking a ride with my best friend  
I hope he never lets me down again  
He knows where he's taking me  
Taking me where I want to be  
I'm taking a ride with my best friend_

_We're flying high  
We're watching the world pass us by  
Never want to come down  
Never want to put my feet back down on the ground.*(c)_

**2012, New York.**

_'Charming, the stains will never come out,'_ Richard thinks as he looks at his destroyed jeans.

Full of tree sap, pine needles and all sorts of debris, reeking of barbecue smoke, he just contemplates chucking them in the garbage. But then he smiles faintly, staring dreamily out of the window until the remaining mosquito bites on his legs make him curse and claw at his skin for what must have been the hundredth time – damn poisonous fuckers! But those irritating stings are memories too – memories of a thunderstorm, which, come to think of it, could very well represent the last twenty-five years of their lives. For good and for bad, the two of them sure could raise the perfect storm…

**2012, Virginia, a few days earlier.**

The sky in the east is a threatening pallet of colours, varying from all possible shades of grey to dark blue, and the last rays of the setting sun, still visible behind the tree tops, make it look even more sinister. The thunderclouds are reflected in the motionless surface of the lake as if it was a huge mirror, framed in the deep green of the pine woods surrounding it, right up to the very edge of the water. Everything else is perfectly serene – not a single breeze of wind, and even birds have stopped their endless chirping. The silence seems to be absorbing all sounds.

So, this is what the calm before the storm looks like, Richard reflects, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke into the close, motionless air.

He throws another, somewhat concerned, glance at the menacing thunderclouds. They are continuously shifting and moving, creeping over the blue evening sky slowly but relentlessly, resembling some kind of a huge, grotesque machine. A machine created by the Mother Nature herself. It is so enormous it makes shivers run down Richard's spine and the hairs on his neck stand on end, as if the very air was electrified. Most likely, it is – there has been a heatwave along the whole East coast for the last couple of weeks, so now a good old thunderstorm is obviously due.

Richard can't make up his mind, however, whether he likes it here or not. It is nice, for a change, to finally be able to get away from the scorching rays of the sun and look at the world without his sunglasses on – or just generally look at the world, because even when wearing them in the city, he still had to constantly squint. Being outside rather than hiding in rooms full of AC units, which would more quickly give you a cold rather than relief, also feels quite pleasant.

That said, there is just one little drawback to it all. This weather would definitely be perfectly suitable if Richard wasn't sitting in the open trunk of a rented SUV in the middle of the forest, watching the slowly rolling sinister clouds and musing about the prospects of spending the possibly stormy night sleeping in a tent on the hard, rooty ground, the mere thought giving him a jab of claustrophobia. What is more, and it is becoming more certain with every passing minute, being soaked to the bone and listening to the monotonous hum of the rain all night long. That is, if they are lucky and there isn't be a bloody tornado or something even worse than that.

What in the name of God is he even doing here? Richard asks himself, sceptically examining the darkness that has obscured the horizon. A few splashes in the water disturb the tranquillity of the nature, drawing his attention back to his immediate problems.

_Ah, that is why._

The reason for his being here is currently wading through the shallow waters towards the gravel shore, naked as on the day he was born, beaming with his unique smile and looking utterly pleased with himself and his life in general.

Paul came to visit him in New York only the day before with the intention of heading off to sunny California with him for a few days. Richard was looking forward to it – with the seemingly endless tour behind them, he, out of old habit, occupied himself with more work, this time on his own project, without taking much rest at all, and although he has nothing to complain about in terms of work itself and the people he meets on a daily basis, a holiday was long overdue. Besides, he found he badly missed this smugly grinning walking disaster emerging like Aphrodite out of the seafoam. It was a surprise, really, as it hadn't been that long since the end of the tour, during which, by all means, they should have grown so fed up with each other that even a half a year break would have seemed fine. This time, though, it didn't work quite like that, making him unexpectedly long for Paul and his company all too soon. Not that Richard minds – it took them a hell of a lot of time to learn how to be with each other again, after that major meltdown of the beginning of the 00s, but as of late their relationship has been truly enjoyable, so the prospects of being with Paul again were exciting.

What he does feel like complaining about, though, is their present location and the prospects of spending the night underneath this murderously darkening sky. It is pretty hard to disregard, no matter how hard he's been trying to for the past half an hour.

The reason why he is actually sulking here is as old and stupid as mankind itself – he lost a bet to Paul. They were watching a baseball game the other night, in which Paul had no interest whatsoever. Still, due to his innate stubbornness and die-hard habit, he chose to support the team which, in Richard's opinion, was doomed to lose. So they placed a bet that the loser was to obediently accept the winner's plans for the weekend. Richard was dead sure of the game's outcome and could literally see the two of them basking in the warm rays of the sun on some deserted beach with fine, white sand and drinks with umbrellas in them. The team Paul had chosen were so hopeless it was impossible for them to win.

Except, they did just that.

So here they are, on the shore of some lake Richard cannot even remember the name of, with the residual coals of the barbecue still smouldering and their little yellow tent set up a few yards away, under the spreading branches of a tremendous pine. The place isn't totally unfamiliar to them, however – around them there are those same green, misty hills where they once spent three days and nights together; hills which witnessed their first, fumbled, love confessions and since becoming some kind of a hallowed ground for the two of them.

Back in New York, with a conspiratorial grin on his face, Paul reminded him that he'd once said they could always return here, so off they went, loading up the SUV with sleeping bags, foam mats, food and mosquito repellents. They could have found a cabin to rent, of course, and Richard would be happy if that was the case, but Paul got the idea of camping into his head, and there was no way to make him change his mind.

So off they went on this little trip into the realm of misty hills, rocky ridges and tall, green pines. Surprisingly, they even managed to do some fishing. They only bother Richard presently has is the brewing storm. Paul, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be bothered by anything at all, and in spite of himself and all his wary thoughts, Richard cannot help a wide grin as he watches his lover saunter towards him, dripping wet and very naked. Paul has never been shy to shake off his clothes and wander about like God created him without a single care in the world, to which Richard can't quite say he objects. He is pushing fifty now, but you could never tell it by the way his body looks – still slim and taut. He has gained a rather soft, little belly, and Richard loves that part of him especially. It provokes the desire to poke, pinch or tickle it, and, to his genuine disappointment, he hasn't had enough time to enjoy that to his heart's content.

Once he reaches him, Paul unceremoniously claims his place in between Richard's thighs, wrapping his arms around his waist and soaking the t-shirt he is wearing. A soft, barely noticeable gust of wind finally blows past them, making Richard shiver from the wet touch to his skin, even though perhaps the closeness of Paul's deliciously naked body is the main trigger. His wet, pleasantly cool, lips press against Richard's throat, right against the spot where his pulse beats, now a bit more quickly than before. Paul smells fresh, a mixture of the scents of his perfume and the lake water, and Richard closes his eyes, smiling to himself as he breathes it in and letting himself enjoy the leisurely, moist pecks landing on his cheeks and neck. He feels more fresh wind on his face, as if it was Paul who brought it with him.

They are interrupted all too soon, though, when yet another muffled rumble of thunder echoes off the ridges somewhere far in the distance. The clouds are still there, much closer than before, now taking almost all of the horizon into their grotesque embrace.

"Looks like the Apocalypse's coming," Richard snorts, reluctantly taking one arm off his naked lover to tap the ash off his cigarette.

Paul turns around to have a not really interested look at the imminently unfolding weather disaster.

"Well, if it's the end of the world, I'd prefer to die having an orgasm," he decrees ever so solemnly, in the unique manner of Paul Landers talking bullshit with a straight face. "So we'd better get down to business soon."

Richard can't hold back a chuckle.

"Have I ever told you that you're the most optimistic and romantic creature I've ever met?" he asks, still grinning, as he rubs the tip of his nose against the smooth silver of one of Paul's earrings.

"You've been telling me this for twenty odd years, I've almost started to believe in it myself."

This tears a hearty laugh out of Richard, and he finally puts his not even still smouldering cigarette into the empty beer can. Then he wraps both his arms and legs around Paul's slim tempting body, thus pulling him a little closer to himself.

Paul indeed isn't the most optimistic person he's ever known, and Richard is actually quite grateful for that. It is more than enough when the man is in the mood for his sophisticated tricks and foolery and everything tends to end up in sheer chaos. If such things became a routine, he'd have driven Richard insane a long time ago. Those who don't know Paul well enough, however, typically mistake him for a sunny, sweet fellow, misled by his wide charming grin and his general amiability, which he has never been ashamed to use to manipulate them all into obedience. Richard was fooled too, just like all the rest – for a while, he took Paul for precisely that – an easy-going, constantly laughing bundle of jokes and good mood.

That was, until he learnt that the guy actually had teeth in him as well, which he used as shamelessly as his smile. Richard experienced those on his own skin too, sometimes quite literally. Wise from the injury, he somehow learnt to avoid them, which took him quite a lot of time and effort, especially back then when they were still struggling not to screw up the precious second chance they were given. Truth be told, Paul's rather obvious lack of faith in them and his reluctance to hear a single word about love, as if he thought of it as of some kind of curse, planted seeds of doubt in Richard's head at that time, making him wonder whether they were doing something wrong all over again. But he managed to accept that just like he accepted all the rest of Paul, good and bad, and persistently moved on. It meant swallowing his pride and making way too many compromises for his liking but it was worth every single tormenting one of them because, at the end of the day, they still collapsed in the same bed, holding on to each other and – most wonderful thing of all – smiling. They didn't really need to put the label _'love'_ on it.

And they also learnt to talk through every single issue they had, albeit they found out the hard way that it was actually helpful. Still, it aided in restoring the trust between them, and that was the sole reason why Richard allowed himself to be dragged along to a place like this, with its knobbly ground for a bed and the lake for a bathtub. He learnt to heed to Paul's words and opinions, and strangely – or maybe there is nothing at all strange about it – no harm usually came out of it.

Just like it is turning out right now – there definitely isn't anything bad about the possessive hold of Paul's hands on his thighs and the slow deliberateness of his kisses. His breath faintly smells of beer, garlic and various spices with which they seasoned the barbecue meat, but it actually makes for a pretty nice mixture. Richard closes his eyes, smiling into their kiss and letting his palms smoothly slide down Paul's wet sides. His thumbs draw small circles around his protruding hipbones, which makes Paul repeatedly push his hips forward. His breath hitches every time he does so, giving Richard the chance to know just how excited he is becoming. Soon, his smile has to be wiped off his face, though, due to the increasing desire to grant Paul more access to his mouth so that he could swirl and twist his sarcastic little tongue inside of it as much as he pleased, which results in more pleasant shivers and goosebumps, raising the hairs on his arms, legs and neck.

The air has become so humid and dense it seems to make it hard to breath it in. Or maybe it's the influence of Paul's lips and cunning hands, of course, leaving Richard short of oxygen. But oh god, this is a wonderful kind of hypoxia! Richard leans back into the trunk of the SUV, letting out a shaky breath as his back touches its rough lining. Paul's hands hurriedly roll up his tee, his mouth following their movement and leaving a trail of lustful, moist kisses across his heaving stomach.

The sun has long hidden by that time, and all Richard is able to see now is a patch of the angry, black clouds behind Paul's dark silhouette hovering above him. Another, much louder, rumble of thunder roars, putting an end to his hopes of hot car sex. Almost immediately afterwards, scattered but very fat rain drops start drumming against the car roof. A gust of rather chilly wind also bursts in, making Paul shiver against him.

"Shit," Richard curses, disappointed. "It could have waited till we're done."

Paul chuckles, rolling his eyes and rather unenthusiastically trying to wriggle out of the car they have almost got half way into.

"You're not gonna be done soon, not with me and not this time, that much I can promise you," he grins from the outside, reaching out his hand to help Richard out. "It's been too long since the last time."

Despite himself and the rather turning-off clouds looming above their heads, Richard can't help but laugh, thrilled by the prospects of what Paul has in mind and still desiring him to distraction, even though _the last time_ actually occurred this very morning.

"I guess we're both gonna be _done in_ if we don't get out of here soon, y'know," he says, throwing an unamused glance at the angry sky above them. "Remind me again, what the hell am I doing here in the middle of nowhere in my swimming trunks when the world looks like it's about to end?"

"Let's get into the tent and I'll show you in great detail," Paul laughs cheerfully, picking up his clothes from the back of the car and slamming the door shut, as if he doesn't give a single damn about the weather. Which he, having always been particularly keen on the Baltic coast escapades and thus being used to less than favourable weather conditions, most certainly doesn't, to Richard's chagrin.

Prudently enough, they set up the tent and brought all their stuff inside once they'd arrived, Richard reflects, when all of a sudden, the sky literally bursts open, gushing down streams of water upon them. The world isn't silent anymore as a flash of lightening cuts through the dark clouds, and the deafening roar that follows makes Richard inwardly cringe. By the time they reach the tent, they are both soaked to the bone and laughing on the verge of hysterics. To Paul, it is probably nothing, though – he has no clothes on him in the first place, whereas Richard's every single garment, even his underwear, are completely sodden, as if he'd just been dipped into a pool.

They tumble into the tent, dripping and snickering, for the time being having forgotten about the desire which took hold of them just minutes ago. Richard gets rid of his drenched clothes, carelessly discarding them beside the tent's opening, next to the ones Paul has brought from the car, which are as hopelessly wet as his own. Outside, the dusk has already started to descend, and the thunderstorm, which by now is roaring at full blast, must be speeding up the process. It is even gloomier inside the tent nestled beneath the vast branches of the pine, but it is a nice kind of darkness, comfortable and welcoming, somehow made cosier by the increasing downpour, with the rain drops relentlessly drumming against the nylon above them. It is a strange feeling to be inside at this moment – it is gushing so close around them, but here they are sheltered from this weather disaster, relatively dry and comfortable. The air inside the tent is damp, and the space is claustrophobically narrow, but Richard finds he doesn't mind either of those.

He is trying to grope for a towel to at least be able to dry his hair so that it stops dripping when he feels Paul softly brush his wet cheek with it. There is something so profoundly intimate about this touch that it makes Richard feel as if he had just taken a blow to the gut, but an ever so gentle one – he could swear he stopped breathing for a while. Paul only rewards him with a mild smirk and hands him the towel, then pushes all their scattered belongings aside and clips a small flash light to the strap hanging from the middle of the tent roof. A quiet click follows, and in the blink of an eye, their shadows dance upon the pale-yellow walls around them.

This, too, is weirdly intimate – as if they were cut off from the rest of the world, trapped inside their small dry bubble of comfort, hidden from it by the downpour raging outside and guarded by the rumbles of thunder. And both of them are finally naked, goosebumps covering their damp skin. The two realisations are apparently somehow connected to the most primal centres of his brain, Richard reflected – they must be because it sends a powerful impulse through him, which makes him shiver and ends up right in his groin. It stirs the almost forgotten desire back to life, and Richard feels himself growing harder yet again. Paul, judging by the looks of him, must have experienced something similar – his eyes, dark from the dim light inside, are shamelessly staring at Richard's awakening cock, and a faint but at the same time very predatory smile twists his lips.

Richard knows this one very well – he has had plenty of time over the past nearly three decades to study Paul close enough to be able to tell almost every single one of his emotions from half a glance. His fellow guitarist does smile a lot, that is true, but he owns a pretty wide range of grins, which could express almost anything from cold contempt to genuine love. Right now, it is neither of those. Paul's lips are slightly parted, with only the very corners of his mouth lifted up; his dark eyes like two pools with still deep water are soothing and compelling at the same time, and every feature of his face is relaxed, bearing the stamp of confidence.

Paul is hungry for him, Richard knows, but he is in no hurry. And he is in control tonight, oh yeah. Well, he has been in control right from the start of this entirely insane camping venture, come to think of it – it was Paul's idea to come here in the first place to spend the night in the midst of the blue-green hills and breath-taking sunsets. They haven't seen any sunset at all so far, and the hills are obscured from their view by the tall pines and oak trees which close around them, and they have to sleep in a tent rather than inside a cosy little cabin they once visited, but Richard couldn't care less about all that. From his personal experience, he has learnt that handing the initiative over to Paul very rarely leads to something disastrous. Most often it results in Richard losing his mind, breath and thinking ability, and although he generally doesn't like giving up control, when it comes to Paul doing him in one way or another, it is definitely worth it.

He lets himself spend a while doing nothing but gazing back at his partner and drinking in his every single feature – Paul's wet hair, his arms and shoulders covered with tiny droplets of water, his nipples enticingly hard, making Richard want to put his lips around them and elicit a moan of pleasure from those half-smiling lips, and then there's that cock of his, erect and hard, and all Richard can think about now is how heavenly it will feel inside of him.

The tip of Paul's tongue moistens his lips before they finally touch Richard's in the first, oh so excruciatingly soft and unhurried kiss, giving them another chance to say a proper _hello_ to each other.

"It seems I need less and less time to start missing you this awfully," Paul breathes, barely even taking his mouth off, and before Richard can say anything in reply, joins their lips again.

He wasn't really going to answer, though. He doesn't need words right now – his body is clearly telling Paul how he feels about him, without using his tongue. That particular part could be involved in something much more pleasant than talking. He only hums something into Paul's mouth, the sound being completely drowned out by the gushing and drumming and rumbling outside. And then Paul's warm hands are squeezing his sides, and the heat of his body touches Richard's skin, drawing him into his lover's arms like a magnet, taking him out of this dimension and into some other world, where only Paul's familiar scent, taste, touch and, occasionally, some muttered words of affection exist.

Paul's closeness has always done this to him, no matter if they were in love or hated each other with passion. Once their skin touched, everything else was completely forgotten. It is nothing short of amazing that, after so many years together, they still tick in the same old way – every single brush of Paul's hands or tongue takes Richard's breath away, making him willing to give his everything for this pleasure. And as years go by, he finds himself less and less averse to the idea of giving in more and more solely for the sake of keeping this precious balance Paul and he have managed to achieve at such a long last.

Just like it is now - somewhere at the back of his mind, Richard is still aware of the storm and thunder, but all he cares about is only Paul's gasps and moans, so enticingly quiet yet, his uneven breathing, the moist sounds their lips produce, and the soft, barely audible, rustle of their limbs against the foam mat on the floor of the tent. Inside, it is hot and humid – Richard can literally feel the sticky perspiration oozing out of his skin, making him shudder under the weight of his lover's body, as he basks in this slippery slithery anticipation of what is yet to come.

It isn't enough that they have already spent almost two days in each other's company – it is only now that Richard can finally feel the real presence of Paul beside him. All the words and laughs, hearty handshakes and warm, friendly hugs are only a part of what he has been longing for for so long. And Paul is right – as of late, it hast started to take them increasingly shorter periods of separation to begin needing each other desperately. What he has been missing so much is the sensation of his partner's carefully trimmed, greying beard scratching the side of his neck, his jerky breathing cooling down his feverishly hot skin, how his warm, nimble fingers knowingly sneak in between his buttocks, taking him to a whole new level of perception. Richard has always liked this first, somewhat teasing touch, the one which doesn't really do anything but promise, the very feeling of expectation of what is yet to come making his entire body shudder. It was like that that very first time so many years ago and it is happening to him right now, and Richard doesn't need to open his eyes to see Paul's face – he knows he is smiling, he always does, with that unique, little smirk of his, looking down on him with something akin to admiration.

And then, after all those long weeks they've been apart, he is finally feeling complete, scratching and clawing at the foam mat underneath his cheek and muffling voiceless obscenities into it as Paul keeps slowly fucking him with such precision as if he really has an intention of dragging it out till kingdom come. It seems to Richard as if Paul's every single thrust gives rise to his every following, quivering, breath; his now unrestrained moaning drowned out by the drumroll of the rain against the tent above his head. It is everywhere around him and inside his head as well, just like Paul and his wonderful, skilful, gentle hands and his wonderful, hot, gasping breath.

Richard bucks his hips to meet his partners slow but powerful thrusts as another roar of thunder pierces through the endless howling outside, giving him a start and making him clench around Paul's flesh.

"Paul..." he gasps, clutching at the corner of the underlay and crumpling it up in his hand. "Jesus Christ, Paul..."

Paul's teeth softly nibble at his jaw, leaving a trail of saliva, and Richard continues to monotonously murmur his name like a mantra. It is a plea, it is gratitude, it encompasses his love and his lust for more, all in one, comprising all his complicated feelings into one, simple word, his lover's name. He feels euphoric because, finally, he is able to surrender himself, to let go of everything, to entrust his needs to the only person who is allowed to take control over him. It is liberating and enslaving at the same time, soothing and exciting, and it feels right, in every single possible way. Richard clutches at Paul's hand, solely by instinct letting their fingers interlace, and he doesn't let go until the very moment the sweet, intense orgasm rolls over him like that thunder which rolls through the air around them, sending him tumbling headfirst into sheer bliss.

He is aware of the final erratic jerks of Paul's hips as he pulls out of him, hearing his quivering, resounding exhales. A warm splash of his semen lands somewhere on the back of his thighs right before his lover collapses, exhausted, almost on top of him, the wind completely knocked out of him. It is amazing when they come together like this. It is as if their emotions, their pleasure, their ecstasy, are all mutual, and this resonance only intensifies the sensations, making the bonds so strongly holding them together seem unbreakable. They could break, of course, but definitely not as long as they are lying entangled like this: sweaty, panting, tired and happy beyond humanly possible. Paul has always been especially skilled at this whole 'coming-together' part, and every time it is equally sensational. They've lived through it plenty of times by now, but Richard is still almost in awe of how Paul manages to time it so precisely.

Richard pulls in a deep, content breath and, with his last bit of strength, turns over and limply lets his arm coil around Paul. His skin feels hot and sticky to the touch, and his hair, still damp from the rain and sweat, tickles Richard's cheek. Right now, clinging so close to him seems the only important thing to do. By the end of the week, they would most probably be content with sleeping on the opposite sides of the bed, and after that, for quite a while those sides will be on two different continents, but not tonight. Tonight, this closeness and intimacy are vital.

As it happens, Richard has always needed it – he tried to ignore it, forget about it, persuade himself it was a trick of his imagination and find something else to appease it – from drugs and booze to one- or more-night stands, with both men and women. Yet, in the end, it always came back to the same old thing – he was happy when he was with Paul – and eventually, he had nothing else to do but to realise there was no way around it and somehow come to terms with it. For Paul's sake and for his own.

It wasn't easy, but over time, Richard learnt to be the first to apologise, even on those tricky occasions when he still believed, deep inside, that he was right. Him being right didn't matter much, though, as long as he and Paul weren't able to find common ground because so much depended on it, from their jobs to their mental well-being. So, more often than not, he would be crawling back for forgiveness, sometimes rightly so and sometimes not, but he doesn't care anymore if, at the end of the day, it gives him the consolation of hearing Paul quietly mumble _'love'_ into his ear.

It had taken him a long time to learn how to say it again, and even now, Richard still isn't quite sure whether Paul really means it, although he prefers not to think about it too often and be content with what he has. It happened after one of their gigs a few years ago, when Paul literally dragged him into the showers of the dressing room they were sharing, with a devilish grin on his lips and whispering something about dreams and lust in between his feverish kisses, but not about love, though, not then. It was close at hand to think Paul was high on something if Richard hadn't known that he'd given it up long ago. Love was mentioned later that night, when neither of them could fall asleep, with Paul uttering it for the first time in more than a decade and looking both desperate and terrified. No disaster ensued, though, and then they just took it from there.

Presently, Richard becomes aware of where he is because of yet another deafening, crashing roar of thunder. Paul's drowsy eyes are inches away from his own, blankly staring at him for a few moments before he drops his head back onto Richard's chest, muttering a quiet but sufficiently indignant, _'Fuck!'_.

The inside of tent has noticeably cooled down and since his skin is still damp where it touched Paul's, it sends shivers all over his body. The flashlight above them sways gently, sending irregular shadows dancing over the canvas of the tent.

"We'd better get into the sleeping bags. I doubt we'll be up to seeing any sunsets tonight," Richard says, ruffling his lover's hair, who reluctantly and with a groan of protest rolls off him, sits up and blinks tiredly. Nope, definitely, no sunsets. He must have drifted far away before that thunderbolt from hell woke them up.

Two tired men in one small tent is a bit of a challenge to begin with, even more so while trying to hook their sleeping bags together, but after some cursing, fumbling and fidgeting around they manage to pull it off.

"I thought hard ground would be the least of your complaints," Paul grins at him through the gloominess, contently and lovingly, when they finally settle down and Richard mutters a joking protest against the roots and stones underneath the floor of the tent. "You've become a bit softer around the edges, you know?"

Richard playfully pinched his side in revenge, making him squirm in his embrace and laugh out loud. He's been missing this teasing, too. As well as being able to laugh at it like this.

"Doesn't help," he snorts, gently running his hand up and down Paul's side, from his hip up to his armpit, to calm him down a bit. "You seem to be the only one who benefits from me becoming softer."

"That I do," Paul happily admits, finding Richard's hand and stroking the back of it. "With the way it's pouring, though, I only hope we won't wake up _in_ the lake come morning."

"What an extremely exciting weekend we're having!" Richard chuckles, not particularly amused with the prospects.

"Are you having me on?"

"No, I mean it!" Richard smiles back, letting the tip of his nose rub against Paul's dry, warm lips until he receives a soft peck, which makes them both smirk. "Always wanted to be trapped in the midst of a flash flood."

Jokes aside, though, he really is thankful – it is actually good to be back here among these hills, even if it means sleeping in this wretched tent. Which, ultimately, doesn't matter. What does is that he can once again feel the scent and warmth of Paul's skin, look into his eyes and listen to him talk bullshit with a straight face.

"There were a few times I thought you were going to strangle me for this." His partner's voice brings him back from his sentimental musing.

"I didn't try even once," Richard snorts in reply.

"You're magnificent."

"I am."

"I love you," Paul says, with that smile on his lips, soft and gentle.

Richard places an affectionate kiss on his mouth, now being certain that he is grinning like an utter imbecile – he just cannot help it when hearing such things from his bandmate. Maybe it is some kind of psychological trauma he acquired long ago when Paul kindly asked him to shut the fuck up every time he wasn't careful enough to hold back his own love confessions.

"It always makes you smile when I say it."

And it seems Paul must have noticed this little weakness of his as well.

"Do you say it only to make me smile?"

"No, I mean it!" Paul mocks him.

"Fool," Richard huffs, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck and seemingly physically unable to stop kissing this insufferable adorable troll.

"Your fool," Paul mumbles with a content sigh.

"My only fool," Richard agrees. "The most precious one."

Paul doesn't say anything, but his carefree smile and those familiar lines on his face are clearly telling Richard all he cares to know – that Paul is happy to be here. And so is Richard, even despite these spartan conditions and the pissing rain. He lets his hand sneak onto Paul's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze – he knows his partner will get the message easily.

Paul soon closes his eyes, but the ghost of his smirk still lingers on his lips even then, those beautiful, soft, warm lips Richard has always been fond of kissing. He spends a while just studying them for what must be a thousandth time by now, as well as the other familiar features of the man's face. _His_ man, his friend, his lover. He silently marvels at how they even managed to survive all that was thrown at them – quarrels and reconciliations, love and hatred – and still be there for each other.

Richard smiles to himself, carefully wrapping his arm around his already sleeping partner, and snuggles a little closer to him, not planning on loosening his embrace until the very morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the little silly one-shot which gave rise to the previous 8 chapters of twisted tortured mess. I do hope it was an enjoyable ride and that this last instalment makes up for all the pain they've lived through. This entire thing was originally written in 2014, and ever since then the scene of Paul's love confession which was long overdue persistently eluded me, but since my wandering Muse is temporary back with me, it seems it might after all be written. In the meantime, I'll just gradually upload all the rest of the spinoffs which were written with this particular universe in mind. 
> 
> *'Never Let Me Down Again' by, surprise-surprise, Depeche Mode.
> 
> Thanks for reading, sweeties!

**Author's Note:**

> This thing was actually written a long while ago and was initially posted on Deviantart, an 80-page mess which was created solely for the sake of the last chapter (that's how I roll, the last part of this misery was written before the rest of it *doublefacepalm*), and which then evolved into an ongoing work consisting of sequels and prequels and whatnot. The problem is, since my Muse seems to be temporarily back with me and actually functioning, there's a new story which is related to this entire universe, but I cannot quite post it without bringing up all the previous ones *facepalm* So, bear with me for a while until I transfer the necessary ones here so that the new additions would make some sense (not sure they will, but I'll get A for trying XD)
> 
> The title refers to 'Coming back to you' originally written by Leonard Cohen, but since it's Depeche Mode all the way, I personally prefer Martin's version of it. 
> 
> *The initial quote is from Bruce Dickinson's 'Eternal'.
> 
> I guess I have to remind everyone that this is a work of fiction and, even though I tried to stick to some of the facts especially in terms of timing, the rest is imagination (sorry to Mr Fialik and the rest of the guys for dragging them into this mess XD) The overdose storyline was inspired by Paul's utterly irate behaviour on stage in the late 90s.


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